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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24443392">The Cultist</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushingthesenses/pseuds/pushingthesenses'>pushingthesenses</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Cultist [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood As Lube, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Body Worship, Breathplay, Choking, Creampie, Cults, Dom/sub, Dominant Kylo Ren, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional Porn, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Execution, F/M, First Kiss, First Time Blow Jobs, Force Bond (Star Wars), Forced Relationship, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Graphic descriptions of abuse, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Kylo Ren is a Mess, Kylo Ren is intense did you expect any less, Kylo just wants to cover you in his blood, Loss of Control, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Mirror Sex, Murder, Nightmares, Oral Sex, POV Kylo Ren, POV Second Person, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Kylo Ren, Praise Kink, Reader-Insert, Restraints, Roughness, Sad Kylo Ren, Self-Harm, Sexual Inexperience, Slow Burn, Soft Kylo Ren, Stockholm Syndrome, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Touch Control, Touch-Starved, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Sex, Violence, Virgin Kylo Ren, and kylo is the chosen one, and snoke is the leader, as a treat, because we have to get a little sad first, eventual fucking everything, followed by, how did i forget to tag murder?, how did i not tag violence before lmao, i don't know what to tell you, idk how this blood fixation happened but it did sorry, not anymore tho lol, not in the way you think, sorry to anyone who doesn't fuck with blood kink, take a shot every time the word blood is used in chapter 26, the first order is a cult, this isn't sanitary kids, we can have a little blood, wound licking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:36:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>69,340</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24443392</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushingthesenses/pseuds/pushingthesenses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Kylo Ren doesn’t know where he comes from, or how old he is. He doesn't know what lies beyond the walls that confine him. He can count on two hands all of the faces he's ever seen. Kylo Ren has never seen a tree, or the ocean, or a flower. He only knows what lies within. It’s all he’s ever known. </p><p>But you do. You know. You know that Ben Organa-Solo was kidnapped at six months old. You know he is twenty-seven years old, now. You know it's your mission to infiltrate the cult that's taken him. You know it's your mission to bring him home.</p><p><b>Artwork all by <a href="https://clumsycopy.tumblr.com">ClumsyCopy</a><br/></b><br/><a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/post/636426333845618688/the-way-i-have-been-knocked-off-my-feet-by">Story art</a> and <a href="https://clumsycopy.tumblr.com/post/636614587452702720/my-rivers-tilt-towards-you">Kylo at his desk.</a></p><p> </p><p><a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7EiebKNUPTSyfvudsDCDl2?si=SV-ik5I2T8mHgANmMO1Rzg">The Cultist's playlist.</a> Feel free to add your songs, it's public.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ben Solo/Reader, Ben Solo/You, Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Cultist [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1990063</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>405</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>575</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story will alternate POV's. One chapter will be from Kylo's perspective, the next from the reader's perspective, and so on.</p><p>From chapter six onward, it will be written in <b>second person omniscient</b>, much to the dismay of my creative writing professors. </p><p> <br/><a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">Say hi on tumblr, if you'd like.</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’ve been demanding an updated age-progression portrait for the past six months, since you were first assigned to this case. Your pleas, however insistent, have fallen upon deaf ears once again. All you have to work with is a digital reconstruction of what Ben Organa-Solo would have looked like at twelve years old - fifteen years out of date. It’s not much use, really, at the rate boys grow, at the rate their faces change and limbs elongate. There’s no estimated height or weight, not even an accurate eye colour. All you know is that his hair is likely black, and his eyes likely brown or hazel. <i>Useless</i>, you think. You could be looking for <i>anyone</i>. </p><p>Six months old, taken from his car-seat in a Walmart parking lot, on a scorching day in July, 1993. Taken from his father, when he turned around for just a second. Taken from his mother, while she was at work. Taken from his little blue comfort blanket that was left strewn across the tarmac. You still have it in an evidence lock-up. It has a little blue butterfly stitched onto the corner.<br/>
<i>“He likes butterflies,”</i> his mother had said in a press conference, <i>“He likes to sit outside with me when I read, and he watches them. Tries to reach them,”</i> she tried to keep her voice steady, tried to keep herself together, but she couldn’t. And how could anyone blame her? Her little boy, her baby, had been snatched away. No one expected Leia Organa-Solo to maintain composure, or any form of balance. No one expected her to be strong. But she was - still is - despite it all. You admire her for that.  </p><p>Ben Organa-Solo was kidnapped two years before you were even born. Yet here you sit, devoting every waking moment to a case you’ve been told so many times, will never be solved.<br/>
<i>“It’s too big,”</i> they’d say. <i>“Bigger than us. Deeper than us.” </i><br/>
<i>“We can’t penetrate something like this.”<br/>
“He’s never coming home.”</i><br/>
You know they gave you this case just to shut you up. To keep you quiet, out of everyone’s hair. <i>“She’s too young to be here,”</i> they’d say. <i>“Just give her a cold one, keep her mind busy.”</i><br/>
They’re probably right, too. Maybe you are too young to be here. Maybe you don’t know what you’re doing. Maybe you are too optimistic about a case that’s been cold for longer than you’ve been alive.<br/>
They’re definitely right.<br/>
Your mind is always busy. </p><p>You see him in your dreams. You see him whenever your eyes lose focus, whenever your mind slips into that space between reality and your dreams. His face - a young face, an unknown face, a digitally rendered face  - has haunted you ever since his case file first landed on your desk. </p><p><i>“Well, rookie,”</i> they’d said, smirking, <i>“You wanted something to do.” </i><br/>
No one else in the precinct wants this case. No one wants to be tied to the failures of being unable to solve it, unable to bring this young boy - now a man - home. If there’s still a person to bring home at all. But you’ve always known, without a shadow of a doubt, that the unease this case brings runs far deeper than a fear of failure. Because we all have open cases. We all have loose ends that may never be tied up. No, you know this issue snakes upward, higher in the ranks. It stems from fear, it stems from terror. It stems from the will to survive.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter One: Kylo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>All these faces, devoted to him. But he’s never once looked up. He knows better.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kylo Ren doesn’t know where he comes from. </p><p>He doesn’t know how old he is. He’s not sure he quite understands the concept of age. He sees the skin on his superiors begin to thin, he sees how it begins to wrinkle and sag. He sees the lines that appear around their mouths, how their lips pull down into deep, permanent scowls. He’s watched his own body change, watched as his limbs stretched out and as his face grew leaner.<br/>
He understands time, how it passes, how it gives and takes parts of him, bit by bit as it goes. But not what it really <i>means</i> for him. </p><p>He only knows that he’s here. Only knows what he’s told. Which isn’t much.<br/>
He used to fill the gaps with his imagination, when he was younger. When he had hope. He doesn't do that anymore. There’s nothing left to imagine. There’s nothing left at all. There’s just him. Just the compound. Just the Order.</p><p>He lives by a regimented, brutal routine.<br/>
He wakes. He meditates. He waits. He is escorted to training - this is his favourite part of his day. He gets to hear snippets of conversation, gets to see faces that aren’t his own, that aren’t of his superiors or his one subordinate. Kylo Ren can count on both hands, all of the faces he has ever seen. He is paraded, every so often, at ceremonies. Like a prized toy. <i>The Chosen One.</i> But he’s forced to look down. He’s not supposed to look at anyone, not supposed to make eye contact. He knows there’s people there, hundreds of them. He can hear them chanting, prayers he doesn’t understand. They chant his name, his title. All these faces, giving him their undivided attention. All these faces, devoted to him. But he’s never once looked up. He knows better. </p><p>After his training, he’s escorted back to his quarters. He’s allowed few luxuries, few hobbies or pastimes. He’s only allowed to read what is approved by The Supreme Leader. Books written Snoke himself, about how he built the First Order with his bare hands. About the force, how he feels it, how it speaks to him. Books about <i>him,</i> about how Kylo Ren is the Chosen One. He knows why, but not enough. He never knows enough. But he doesn’t ask questions anymore. He grew tired of the beatings he’d endure for ever opening his mouth. So he stays quiet. Writes at his desk. Calligraphy is one of the few luxuries that he’s allowed. He’s permitted to go on walks, sometimes. With the Knights as an escort, of course. He’s only allowed as far as the walls. Kylo can’t see over them, can’t see what lays beyond. He doesn’t know that there’s a forest outside, or that there’s mountains. Kylo has never seen a tree, or the ocean, or a flower. He only knows what lies within. It’s all he’s ever known. </p><p>He endures the meetings, the endless tirades, the preaching. He endures their expectations, their commands. He sits, he simmers. He returns to his chambers - escorted, as always.  He screams. Shouts until he’s hoarse, until his throat scratches and stings. Until his eyes are bloodshot, until his head aches. He used to throw things - tables, chairs. He can’t anymore. They bolted everything to the ground some years ago. The only thing he has left to throw is his calligraphy pen. But he won’t throw that, won’t break the only thing that’s really <i>his</i>. The only thing he likes. Instead, he throws himself into the walls until his sides bruise, blue and purple marks blossoming up and down his skin. He used to have a window. Threw himself at it once, when he was a boy. They boarded it up after that. He misses being able to crane his neck, seeing just above the wall, where the stars glittered above him. Kylo likes the stars. </p><p>But not every day is like this, no. Some days, The Supreme Leader will leave, taking Brendol - the stupid brute, the red-faced bastard that took Kylo’s stars away - with him. They’ll leave for days, sometimes weeks at a time. On these days, Kylo Ren sits on the throne. </p><p><i>“It’s preparation,” </i>Snoke would say. <i>“It’s what you’ve been training for, boy. This will be your life when I’m gone.” </i><br/>
Kylo doesn’t want the throne. Kylo just wants to <i>be</i>.<br/>
But he sits on it anyway. Armitage beside him, yapping in his ear. He doesn’t hate Armitage, but he tires of him. Tires of his fervor, his arduous and unrelenting drive. Of his passion. Kylo has passion, too, sometimes. On his good days, he really believes this is what he’s built for, what he’s meant for. On his good days, he doesn’t mind the throne - he wants it. He sits straight, he barks orders, he commands respect. On his good days, he doesn’t mind the executions. He doesn’t mind swinging his sword through the necks of the traitors, of the code-breakers. They have bags over their heads. He can’t see them, anyway.<br/>
But not always.<br/>
Kylo is fractured, conflicted. On his bad days, he returns to his chambers and falls to the floor, the sobs that erupt from him threaten to split his bones in two. He’ll kick the walls, scratch at his skin until he rips gashes into the flesh, he’ll press his palms so far into his eye sockets that he sees the stars again. He’ll fall asleep like that, tucked between the wall and his desk. He’ll dream of the sound of his blade cutting through bone, through vertebrae. He’ll dream of their heads rolling across the floor, he’ll dream of their bags being ripped from their heads. He’ll dream that it’s Poe, screaming for him to wake up, begging Kylo not to do this, because he’s better than this, because he’s a good man. <i>“You are,”</i> he’d scream. <i>“I’ve seen it.”</i><br/>
He vomits when he wakes. That gets him in trouble on the days where Snoke is there. He’ll get a beating for that, for having to be escorted to the showers earlier than usual. But they can’t touch him when Snoke is gone, when he’s the Supreme Leader.<br/>
<i>Thank the Maker. </i><br/>
He asked who the maker was, once, when he was young. He got a slap for it, a slap so hard it split his skin. He once thought he’d deserved it, for asking a stupid question. Now, he thinks it’s because Snoke simply didn’t <i>know.</i></p><p>When Kylo arrives in the throne room on his bad days, he doesn’t speak. He rarely speaks at all regardless, but least of all on these days. He thinks instead. Thinks of all the ways he could end this, burn the whole compound to the ground. He could walk outside, he could open the cells. He could walk right up to the front gates and open them, let everyone out. He would see what lay beyond those gates, he would finally be <i>free</i>.<br/>
But he doesn’t.<br/>
The snipers would get him the second he stepped into the courtyard.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I hope you like this! </p><p> </p><p>  <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">You can say hi on tumblr, if you'd like!</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter Two: You.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It occurs to you then, as the golden light of the morning creeps through the blinds, that the help you’re looking for, the help Ben <i>needs</i>, isn’t going to come from your superiors. You know now, that if you want to help this family, if you want to bring this man home, you’ll have to do it yourself.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>We're switching things up a bit. Something about writing reader as a detective wasn't sitting right with me.</p>
<p><b>Also</b>, Poe is going to pop up in this story quite a bit, and obviously, seeing as he's played by Oscar Isaac, he's got the same heritage as the actor who plays him.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Before you were handed this case-file, before you had a clue, you thought Ben Organa-Solo was just another stolen baby. It happens, you know that. Women desperate for children, usually. That was the assumption you’d come to under limited information - news stories, press conferences. How mistaken you had been. </p>
<p>Now, you sit, legs crossed, on a dark coloured desk, facing a white-board you’d erected some months ago. It helped to visualise things. To draw the connections with a little red marker. To see the faces of suspects far beyond your reach. His face is in the centre. The face of a twelve year old boy, an artist’s impression of what his school portraits may have looked like, had he ever had the chance to be enrolled in one. Pale skin against a blue back-drop. Black hair curling around his shoulders. That’s the only thing you’re really sure of - his hair colour. <i>Unless they dyed it</i>.<br/>That thought only occurs to you now, and you scrawl it down in your notes. <i>You should tell them to give you three versions of the new portrait</i>, you think. <i>One blonde, one brunette, one of his natural colour</i>.<br/>You try to find the answers in the lines between the photos, in the lines between the faces of men you’ve never met. Sunken eyes, hollowed cheeks, thinning skin. You only know him by one name - Snoke. Despite your best efforts, you can’t find a trace of his existence elsewhere. You don’t know where he came from, or how he has amassed such a following. You don’t know his rhyme or reason, for apparently ordering the kidnapping of a baby boy, named Ben Organa-Solo. <i>Apparently</i>. It’s all <i>‘apparently’</i>.  Unsubstantiated tips and anonymous letters. You have troves of information because of it, straight from the inside. The first letters came from the mid-1990’s. The detectives back then didn’t know what to make of them, thought they were a hoax. They weren’t, though. You know that now. </p>
<p>They were detailed, lengthy accounts of what was happening in a cult somewhere in the mountains. They never said where, and the area is too large to hazard any guesses. The blankets of forest that surround the peaks are too thick to see through even from a helicopter. A measured and calculated location, you assume. <br/>The writer never gave their name, only said they were a <i>‘man looking to repent’</i>. Repent of what, you don’t know. The detectives then didn’t either. He spoke of beatings, executions, horrific violence. <i>‘It’s mostly men,’</i> he’d written. <i>‘The women are kept in their quarters. They’re used to serve, they’re ours to use. Something tells me that’s not how the Maker intended.’</i> <br/>He wrote of the day that, supposedly, Ben Organa-Solo arrived. </p>
<p>
  <i>‘They came in with a baby, black curls. Pale skin. Kylo Ren. They said he was The Chosen One. The one that will lead us into battle when the reckoning comes. He will lead the Dark Army, he will save us all. We have to worship him, he’ll be our leader one day. But then I heard the whispers, whispers that he was taken from the outside, taken from his parents. I was on the outside, once, I remember the world. I know the pain a parent feels when their child is no longer with them. This boy does not belong here. None of us belong here.’</i>
</p>
<p>The man who wrote these letters - he doesn’t know Ben’s name. Not his real name, anyway. But then, you can’t be sure this child <i>is</i> Ben. But this man, he knew the world. He’d been on the outside. He’d addressed each letter to law enforcement. <br/>‘<i>I take great risks sending these letters,’</i> he’d written once. <i>‘I sacrifice something for each one I send. It’s a transaction. Only Snoke and his men are allowed outside. It’s a trade. It will be a worthwhile one for your help.’</i></p>
<p>Help never came. The claims were never investigated. The letters stopped coming suddenly, some time in 1996. You reckon that’s when he was found out, when he was caught. If his tales of executions are anything to go by, you don’t think it’s too far-fetched to assume that he’s long dead. </p>
<p>Two months ago, while you were sitting at your desk with nothing much to do, nothing much to go on, another letter arrived. <br/>You don’t know how they get them to you, if things are as enclosed and restricted as they’re made seem. But you can’t write back, you can’t ask. You don’t have a location, anyway. This person, whoever they are, doesn't know where the compound is. They don’t know where it is that they’re living, or what lies outside. Your life would certainly be easier if they did. The letters are short, anyway. Only ever a couple of lines. You’ve only ever received three - in perfect cursive, just like the ones that came before, addressed simply to ‘<i>Someone</i>’. They’re given to the mailman, by a man dressed in black. <i>Apparently</i>. You’ve never seen him yourself. </p>
<p><i>‘We hear whispers that you’re looking for him on the outside’,</i> one had said. <i>‘He was taken by Snoke, Brendol and their Knights. He is here. He can’t leave.’</i> Another had read,<br/><i>‘I don’t know who I am sending these to. I don’t know what’s outside these walls, if there’s anyone at all. I tell them to get it to someone who can help. He needs help. We need help.’</i><br/>The last one simply read, <i>‘Free us.’</i></p>
<p>It dawned on you some time ago, that Ben may not be the only victim. That others may have met similar fates, stolen from their lives with false promises of something better. You trawl through the town records. You’ve gone through every missing person’s file you can get your hands on. Most of them are long solved, or have enough circumstantial evidence to safely assume what became of them. All but two - a young man named Kes Dameron and his pregnant wife, Shara, who disappeared in the summer of 1987. Friends of the couple gave statements regarding their withdrawn and unusual behaviour, that had begun not long before they disappeared. Their home was left pristine, with all of their belongings inside, the car parked in the driveway. Their bank accounts were never touched again. Leads dried up several weeks later, and their case remains cold, lost among the archives in the basement. You often wondered why it was never re-investigated, why no one bothered to reopen the files. But you realised rather quickly, that a Cuban immigrant and his Guatemalan wife were not going to be a priority among the rotten detectives in this town. </p>
<p>So you keep their pictures on the whiteboard, close to Ben’s. You hope you find them, when you find Ben.<br/>Because you're <i>going</i> to find Ben.</p>
<p>You wonder if there's more, more lost souls from other towns, from other cities. You make a mental note to look through the records of the five nearest districts. </p>
<p>You’ve asked for a task force six times since you were given this case. <br/><i>“It’s too big,”</i> you’d said. <i>“I need help.”</i><br/>They’ve turned you away each and every time, laughing as they did. <br/><i>"Thought you said you could crack this one, rookie?"</i><br/>Working here, in this damp, badly ventilated office, enrages you. You hate them, you hate your superiors, your subordinates. You hate their ignorance, how little they care. You joined this force, this department, to <i>help</i> people. You assumed, back then, that they did, too. But they didn't. That, you know. They joined to exert their power. <br/>It infuriates you, the things you don’t know. The things you could know, if only someone would help you. If only someone else cared. </p>
<p>You go to bed every evening, and you wonder if Ben has a bed of his own. You wonder if the moonlight creeps through his window and illuminates his sheets, as it does yours. You wonder if he has a window at all. You wonder how much he knows of the outside world. So you scribble down your thoughts in the journal you keep by your nightstand. Your handwriting is mostly illegible at this hour of the night, when your eyes sting and your limbs feel heavy. But what have you to complain about? You have a home - an apartment, a warm bed, you have your freedom. You can only assume that he isn’t so lucky. But you hope he is. </p>
<p>You lay, staring at the ceiling. It’s not unlike you at all to get invested in cases, to do your best to help. But something about this one feels different. It consumes you, keeps you awake for hours and hours on end. The thought of so many trapped lives, the thought of a crying child being pried from his car-seat, of a blue blanket falling off his tiny shoulders and onto the ground . It makes you cry into your pillowcase when you think of how easily you could crack it, if only you had the help. It occurs to you then, as the golden light of the morning creeps through the blinds, that the help you’re looking for, the help Ben <i>needs</i>, isn’t going to come from your superiors. You know now, that if you want to help this family, if you want to bring this man home, you’ll have to do it yourself. </p>
<p>They don’t know, down at the station, that you make copies of the files, of the letters, of the evidence. You know you’re not supposed to, but you don’t care. You’ve always known that if things were to go south, if things were to get a little too sticky, that the evidence could very well disappear. You know that they’d never allow you to do what you’ve been planning, you know they’ll never give you any resources. You know they’ll never help you, they’ll never help Ben, or the Dameron's, or anyone else. So you decide then, as the little red numbers on your alarm clock flick from 5:59AM to 6:00AM, that you’re going to hand in your badge. You’re going to hand over your weapon. <br/>Because if Ben Organa-Solo has any chance of coming home, it’s worth the fall.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">Say hi on tumblr, if you'd like!</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter Three: Kylo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Kylo’s entire life has been a process of endurance and survival. He lives in a constant conflicted cycle, unsure about whether or not he wants to survive at all.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I don't know why I HC Kylo as having sensitive skin, but here we are.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>Kylo knows he is dreaming. Knows he has to be, because he’s laughing. The sensation is only half there, only partially in his throat - not vibrating in his chest, like it should.  He knows he must be dreaming because he’s not alone. Poe stands beside him, fresh-faced and smiling. They’re young, far younger than they are now. Poe is twirling a staff around, and Kylo realises then, somehow in his subconscious, that he’s dreaming of a memory.<br/>
“I remember this day,” he says to Poe, his laugh tapering off into his words. “I won.” His words echo as he speaks, as though they ricochet off the walls of his mind.<br/>
Poe scoffs, pretending to jab Kylo with his staff before pulling it back into a spin. “You always win, you always beat me,” he chuckles, watching as Kylo sits down cross legged on the training mat. Poe joins him, patting his shoulder as he hits the floor with a grunt. Kylo revels in the moment - the quiet feeling of friendship, of brotherhood, of the last time he felt joy.<br/>
“Is this the last time I saw you?” Poe asks suddenly, and then Kylo feels it again. The crashing wave of grief, of isolation, of pure sadness. He nods solemnly.<br/>
“I’ve trained alone or with a Knight every day since.”<br/>
Poe looks up, then.<br/>
“It’s not your fault, Kylo.”<br/>
Before he can answer, he wakes, drenched in sweat and tangled in sheets.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Snoke is ‘home’ this week - if you can call the compound that. Kylo doesn’t. He doesn’t actually know what the word means.<br/>
So, he paces. Kylo has been pacing for most of the morning, back and forth, back and forth. He has nothing better to do. Rarely ever does. He’s already finished meditating - not that it helps much. He avoids it when he can. It scares him, what he sees, what he feels, when he enters that part of his mind. It's worse - <i>almost</i> - than his dreams.<br/>
He hears them, then. The footsteps, the heavy <i>thud, thud, thud</i> of the Knights’ boots as they approach. Perfectly in sync, as always. They’re coming to take him to the showers, and he’s grateful he didn’t vomit when he woke this morning. His jaw is still bruised, a faint yellow, greenish hue, from the last time.<br/>
He clenches it, grinds down on his teeth, testing the movement, relishing in the dull ache as he does. He likes to feel pain - but only the kind he can inflict on himself. He likes the pain he can control. </p>
<p>He hears the sliding click of the lock, and the doors fly open. He’s never seen their faces, only ever their masks, nor does he know their names. He isn’t sure he cares to know what they look like, or who they are. They surely don’t seem to care about him. They’re supposed to be <i>his</i>, his to control, his to order - but they’re not, not yet. He hasn’t earned it, hasn’t yet earned the right to the throne, hasn’t yet earned his title. So for now, the roles are reversed. Two of them haul him through the door, gloved hands gripping his biceps so hard that Kylo knows his pale skin will bruise - it always does.<br/>
He could easily fight back, he knows this. They know this. He’s bigger than them, stronger, too. His training routine is far more vigorous than theirs had ever been, and they lack the rage, the raw, untamed, manic-tinged fury that makes Kylo so very dangerous. It serves as his adrenaline, his motivation, his only real purpose - at least, the only purpose he understands.<br/>
But he doesn’t, doesn’t fight back or overpower them. He never does. At least, not anymore. He did as a boy, he’d scream and kick and wear himself out. One of the Knights had grown irate with his outbursts, and struck little Kylo so hard in his chest that his sternum had shattered. So now, he lets them drag him, manhandle him. He lets them yank his robes away with such little grace that they’re often ripped in the process, the fabric tearing at the back of his neck, his arms. He lets them push him beneath the lukewarm spray, so hard that he collides with the tiled wall. Because what can he do? Where can he run? Kylo’s entire life has been a process of endurance and survival. He lives in a constant conflicted cycle, unsure about whether or not he wants to survive at all.</p>
<p>When they pull him out, two sets of leather-clad hands snatching his forearms, his neck, he’s guided to the sinks, where there’s a row of mirrors, and a seat. This is the only time of the day where Kylo can see himself, see his reflection staring back at him. Damp, dripping strands of raven hair fall across his forehead, grotesque yellow bruises litter his jaw, shoulders and biceps, new purple-blue ones blossoming on his arms. His skin is so pale, so lifeless. He can see the veins in his neck, the blue tinted lines creeping down the sides of his throat.  He hates his reflection. Always has. It infuriates him, being confronted with the sight of the weak, complacent man that he is. That he’s become. Because he should be powerful, strong, capable. But he’s not. He’s not sure he’ll ever be.<br/>
They push him down into the seat forcefully, yanking his head back by his hair. They’re always so rough with him, never gentle, never caring. He’d tilt his head back on his own, if only they asked, or even prompted him to do so. But they don’t, they never do.<br/>
They pull the blade out, then, the shining silver glistens under the fluorescent light. Kylo isn’t allowed to have a knife, or a blade, or anything sharp. He’s only allowed access to his own sword when he sits on the throne. He knows why, knows they worry he’ll kill them. As much as he’d like to, as much as he dreams of it, he’s not sure he would. He won’t admit it aloud, won’t ever let the words leave his mouth, but he’s afraid of being without. Afraid of what’s outside. Afraid of not being strong enough to last on his own.<br/>
The slap of a glove to his skin startles him from his thoughts, and he jumps slightly. Four sets of hands are on him, and they grip him tighter, forcing his face to the side. He feels the cold, white substance slide across his skin. He’s never understood what it was for, what its purpose was. He doesn’t know what’s in it. He only knows it makes his skin burn, sometimes leaving blotches on his neck and jaw that itch and irritate him all through the day. The Knights hold his head still, gripping his skull so tight that his head aches, like they’re concerned he’ll resist, or run. Kylo doesn’t understand why - they know as well as he does, that he has nowhere to run, or to hide.<br/>
When the blade makes contact with his skin, he fantasises that it turns, the sharpened edge running right across the delicate skin of his throat. A clean cut, a quick, precise movement. He wonders how long it would take for his body to bleed itself dry, how long it will take for his eyes to flutter shut, his mind to go blank, for his thoughts to stop. For all of this to be <i>over</i>, finally, finally over.<br/>
Every day, when he’s dragged to those showers, a small part of him wishes never to return. But every day, he does. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>He sits rigidly at the dining table. Snoke always sits at the head, Kylo directly opposite, at the end, flanked by Hux and Brendol on either side. The Knights surround the room, standing stoically, watching silently. The room is dark, illuminated only by candles - just how Snoke likes it. The atmosphere is tense, heavy. Always is. Kylo never has much of an appetite, never wants to eat. It makes him nauseous, makes his stomach churn. But he eats, anyway. His defiance has consequences. Always does. So he keeps his head down, eyes down. Endures.<br/>
“You look, miserable, son.”<br/>
Kylo’s eyes flick upward. He feels his ears tinge red with rage, feels his jaw tighten, his eye twitch. He hates it when Snoke calls him that. Snoke is not his father, he is not loving, or kind, like a father should be. Like Poe used to say his father was to him.<br/>
He doesn’t answer, simply looks back to his plate. He looks the same today as he always does. If he looks miserable now, it’s because he <i>always</i> is. He jumps when Hux kicks him harshly from under the table, his blue eyes wide with panic. Kylo spares him an irritated glance, catching how Hux’s eyebrows knit together in an act of feigned irritation. Kylo knows he’s not irritated - he’s anxious. So he lays down his fork, turning from Hux and moving his gaze to Snoke, who sits straight, observing him intently.</p>
<p>“I’m not miserable,” Kylo says slowly. His voice is slightly hoarse. It’s the first time he’s spoken all day. “Supreme Leader.” He adds quickly, not wanting Snoke’s mood to sour. He gives no other explanation, no other insight into his demeanour. Snoke hums, fingernails tapping against the mahogany of the table.<br/>
“Assuming that you’re lying to me, which I know you are,” Snoke begins nonchalantly, “And assuming you are, in fact, miserable…” he trails off for a moment, pondering his approach. Kylo looks up, the unexpected conversation making him feel uneasy. “What can I - what can <i>we</i> do to make things a little better? A little easier?” Snoke gestures to Brendol, who looks expectantly to Kylo. He feels nervous, then. Panicked, even.<br/>
“I’m sorry, Supreme Leader,” he says shakily. “I don’t understand.” And he doesn’t, he really doesn't. They never ask him such things, they never enquire about how he feels, or how fucking miserable he is. Not once have they asked him how his existence could be improved.<br/>
“What would make you happier, Ren? What would ease your troubles?” And there it is, that snarl that appears on Snoke’s sagging features in place of a smile. Kylo is positive that Snoke doesn’t know <i>how</i> to smile, his snarl betrays his intent every time. “Hm? I’m sure you can think of something, Ren.”</p>
<p>He’s silent. He can think of many things,  but he’d never dare ask. Never dare ask for freedom, never dare ask for a friend. To see Poe again. His eyes shift, his mind frenzied. He looks to Hux, who is staring at him, awaiting an answer. Kylo doesn’t <i>have</i> an answer. So he doesn’t say anything. Just looks down, stares at his plate, hoping somehow he’ll find the answer in his distorted reflection.<br/>
“A girl, maybe?” Snoke’s voice is condescending, demeaning. Kylo’s brow furrows. He’s never even <i>seen</i> a girl before. Well, there was the elderly handmaiden that helped care for him as a boy, but that was it. And she was cruel, she’d hit him harshly when he didn’t learn things fast enough, when he cried, when he tripped.<br/>
“A girl?” Kylo repeats, unsure of what is being offered to him. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand.”<br/>
Snoke grunts.<br/>
“Every great ruler, every great king, every great emperor, has a queen. An empress,” he twirls his knife in his bony fingers as he speaks. “Myself included, once. She’s...well, she’s not with us anymore, is she?” He chuckles laying the knife down. “Passion. Love, it’s the greatest accelerant to the dark side of the force. Makes you more powerful than you could ever understand.”<br/>
Kylo wishes he could understand, wishes he could gauge what it meant to feel love. But he doesn’t, he’s positive he never has. He can’t wrap his mind around Snoke’s words, can’t fathom what he could be inferring. He blushes slightly in embarrassment, because surely, he should know this word, know this feeling. His eyes shift from Brendol, to Hux, back to his plate.<br/>
“I-I apologise, Supreme Leader, I don’t think I know what that word means.”<br/>
“Love?”<br/>
“Yes, sir.”<br/>
Snoke is silent for a moment, and Kylo can almost feel cogs turning in his mind.<br/>
“You will,” He stated plainly, narrow eyes moving to settle on Brendol. “I have someone in mind.”<br/>
With that, Snoke excused the party from the table, and the Knights gathered around Kylo, grabbing him roughly and pulling him from his seat. He wishes they’d just let him <i>walk</i>. </p>
<p>As the dining room empties, as Kylo is dragged back to his room, as Hux retreats to his quarters, Brendol turns to face Snoke.<br/>
“With all due respect, sir,” he speaks through gritted teeth, agitation clear on his sunken features. “This plan could be disastrous for the Order.”<br/>
Snoke only smirks, thin skin bunching around the left side of his mouth. “She’ll make her way in, anyway, Brendol. Better to take her, keep her before she can do anything harmful, no?”<br/>
Brendol says nothing, simply grunts and shakes his head.<br/>
Snoke smiles. “Isn’t that what they say, to keep your enemies close?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
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        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter Four: You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You tell yourself that you do it for his family, for his parents. And while that is partially true, you know that’s not really it, you know there’s something more there. You’ve come to care for him - about a boy, a man, that you don’t even know. And you can’t quite fathom how that came to be.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>We stan Rose Tico and Wedge Antilles in this house. Things are gonna start moving <i>reaaal</i> soon! I hope you like this.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sun is shining, warm on your skin as you walk. You can’t help it, you really can’t, when you think of him, then. When you wonder if he can feel it too, if he can sit in the warmth of it, if he can feel the summer breeze glide across his skin. It confuses you, sometimes, when you realise how utterly far gone you are with this case. How deep you’ve submerged yourself in the ‘what if’s’ and ‘could be’s’ of a boy who’s long lost. How <i>engulfed</i> you’ve become in the task of finding him. You wish you knew why, you wish you could pin-point what it is about this case, about Ben Organa-Solo, that has you so distracted - that has you lying awake at night, that has you constantly wondering what that little boy and his little blue blanket could have possibly done to deserve this. </p>
<p>You tell yourself that you do it for his family, for his parents. And while that is partially true, you know that’s not really it, you know there’s something more there. You’ve come to care for him - about a boy, a man, that you don’t even know. And you can’t quite fathom how that came to be. You don’t even know what he <i>looks</i> like. What he <i>acts</i> like - <i>who</i> he really is. Maybe they were right, down at the station, when they’d tell you that you were too sensitive. That you’re not cut out for this.<br/>
No, no, no. They’re wrong about that last part. You <i>are</i> cut out for this.</p>
<p>You know people. People who can help, help you do things that you couldn’t have done before. Not while you still wore a badge, while you still held a gun, when you still had rules to follow. Your feet are carrying you in their direction, now. Carrying you toward help. Help for the trapped souls behind those walls. Help for Leia, for Han. For their son.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>“Well, you’ve really got yourself in the thick of it, this time, kid,” Wedge grunts, propping his feet up, ankles crossed, on the desk before him. “A cult, you say?”<br/>
You hum in agreement. “Has all the signs of one - strange disappearances, letters from the inside asking for help. It’s a mess, Wedge, I know, but this kid-”<br/>
“The baby, the one that disappeared,” He affirms, and you nod.<br/>
“Yes, him, Ben Organa-Solo,” you slide his age progressions across the table toward him. You never did receive an updated one, so you have no choice but to work with what you have. “He’d be twenty-seven now.”<br/>
“And this is what we got to work with?” Wedge scoffs, holding the oldest photo up. “How old’s he meant to be here, ten?”<br/>
“Twelve.”<br/>
“<i>Jesus</i>, kid, come <i>on</i>.”<br/>
“Well, we can reach out to NamUS, to The National Centre of Missing and Exploited Children, they could get another one done, right? We could do something huge on this.”<br/>
“Bold of you to assume they’ll respond to me,” he sighs, laying the photo back down. “I’m not exactly well liked in the journalism community. If I reach out on behalf of an investigative expose, I doubt they’ll hear a word out of me.”<br/>
“What about Rose?” You ask, and you see, then, how his eyebrows raise and his face softens. Rose Tico, his top student in the local community college where he taught journalism. Rose is the reason you know Wedge at all - she was a childhood friend you wish you had the chance to see more of. Though you never lost touch, you didn’t see much of each other, what with the haste of careers and busy lives.<br/>
He nods slowly at your words. “Rose…” he smirks. “They’ll talk to Rose, alright.”<br/>
You grin, your hands clasping together excitedly. “Great! But there’s this other thing I wanted to talk to you about, the real reason I came to you first, and not Rose,” You watch as his brow raises expectantly, his curiosity clearly peaked. “I want to infiltrate.”<br/>
Wedge’s face drops. “You want to <i>what</i>?”<br/>
You roll your eyes. “You heard me. Look, I know you’ve done this before. I need to get him out of there, Wedge, I literally will not rest until I finish this.”<br/>
He pulled his legs off the table swiftly, leaning forward in his seat. “Finish th-” he cut himself off, sighing deeply and running a hand through his greying hair. “You don’t even know for sure that he's <i>there</i>.”<br/>
“Well then I’ll find out when I get there, won’t I?”<br/>
He groaned your name in exasperation, dropping his head. “You’re trying to bite off way more than you can chew, here, kid.”<br/>
“Just-” you press your lips together in frustration. “Just give me a chance, Wedge. We can make a plan, a thorough plan. We can bring this kid home, we can take this whole cult down! And you and Rose, you can make a fucking incredible story out of this,” you lean forward, capturing his attention with your intensity. “It’ll be career changer for both of you, life changing for all the people we can set free, for the man we can bring home to his parents…” you trail off for a moment, pulling back. “And maybe when this is all over, I’ll finally be able to sleep.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Rose chews at the inside of her lip in thought. The three of you stand in the living area of your apartment, around your pin board - you’d taken it from your office and haphazardly shoved it into the back of your car to take it home. It got a bit banged up along the way, but it’s in one piece. On the desk to your right, sit the stacks of photocopies you’ve made - of letters, of witness statements, of crime scene photographs. You likely could have gotten away with taking the originals, the department never, <i>ever</i> touches this case. They never venture into the evidence locker and open the boxes, they never look over their notes. They never cared, they never will. </p>
<p>“This place,” Rose murmurs, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “You don’t know where it is, do you?”<br/>
You sigh. “No, I don’t think they know, either,” you gesture to the small pile of letters. “Wherever they are, they can’t see outside, or at least, they can’t see anything distinguishable.”<br/>
“How do you expect to get in, to join this thing, if you don’t even know where it is?” Wedge asks, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. <i>Bad knee</i>, you think.<br/>
You hesitate. You haven’t entirely thought it through, but you have a skeleton of an idea lingering in the back of your mind. “Well,” you begin. “I haven’t fleshed that part out much-”<br/>
Wedge scoffs, and you scowl at him. “<i>But</i>,” you continue, sparing him a steely glance. “Snoke,” you point to a photo on your pin board, the only photo you have of him. “We know he leaves the compound with guards, that’s how they get the letters out. So they obviously come here, or to this area, right?”<br/>
Rose and Wedge look to each other before nodding, your cue to continue.<br/>
“So I go to them. Make myself vulnerable, make myself a perfect target for them to just...take. And they <i>will</i>, I’m sure of it, they’ve taken before. Cult leaders want more people, more followers, if I offer myself to them on a silver platter, they’ll take it.”</p>
<p>Wedge observes you silently for a moment. “You know how dangerous this is, don’t you?”<br/>
“I have an idea, yes.”<br/>
“We should really have law enforcement in on this, kid,” he sighs and looks at Rose. She’s pacing around the room, visibly anxious. “Call in some buddies from your department, things could go real south, real fast.”<br/>
“No, no,” you grit out, frustrated. “Don’t you get it? Don’t you understand why I left?” You flail your arms helplessly, “They don’t care, this case, th-” you grunted in irritation, unable to articulate your words. “They cover everything up, they have no intentions to solve it, that’s why I’m here, to bring that man home because-because <i>fuck</i>!” you’re red faced, flustered, angry. Tears threaten to spill from your eyes. “No one <i>fucking</i> else will.”<br/>
You felt Rose’s arms on you then, wrapping around your shoulders. “It’s okay,” she said, holding you close. “We can do it, we can do it. We’ll figure it out.”<br/>
You nod, sniffling. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I just, I can’t just leave it. I can’t leave this like I found it. I have to finish it.”<br/>
“Then we will, honey,”  Rose says softly. “We will.”<br/>
Wedge sighs in defeat. “Alright, kid,” he says, stepping toward you and laying a hand on your shoulder. “Let’s do it. But <i>safely</i>, alright? We don’t need anyone getting killed.”<br/>
You nod frantically, moving away from the pair to settle at your desk, rummaging through the papers. “The man in black,” you sniffle, rifling through the letters. “He always came to deliver these on a Saturday. Not every week or anything like that b-but when he came, he’d come on a Saturday.”<br/>
Wedge grunted, circling around you to look at the letters you held. “If I was a cult-leader lookin’ to pick up a new brainwash-ee on a nice Saturday afternoon, where would I go…” he looked to you then, brows raised.<br/>
“Parking lot.” you both say simultaneously.<br/>
“But how do we know when to be there?” Rose asks. “How do we know when he’ll show?”<br/>
“We don’t,” you shake your head, looking back to the letters.<br/>
<i>Free us</i>.<br/>
“But I’ll go every week, I’ll be there every damn day until he finds me, until he takes me. Starting tomorrow.”<br/>
“<i>Tomorrow?</i>” Wedge sighs. “Kid, we don’t have a plan, we don’t have it all figured out yet-”<br/>
“Then let’s figure it out!” you slam your fist against the table in frustration, startling yourself, making yourself jump with the noise. Your head shakes solemnly. “For so many years, people have been trapped in there, <i>he’s</i> been trapped in there. They asked for help and no one came!” You cry, holding up the letter, the perfect penmanship that read ‘<i>Free us</i>’. “No one <i>ever</i> came. They’ve waited long enough.”<br/>
“This kid, this boy,” Wedge sighs. “He means something to you, doesn’t he?”<br/>
“I’ve never met him,” you counter, shaking your head. “I don’t know him.”<br/>
“But you feel like you do,” Rose adds, sitting on the side of the desk. “He’s important to you, and that’s okay. But if he’s lost to this, if-if-” she stops herself, trying to regain composure. She sighs your name. “I can’t lose <i>you</i> to it too, okay?”<br/>
You nod, clutching at her hand and giving it a sharp squeeze.</p>
<p>“You won’t, because the difference between me and them is that no one knows where they are, no one knows <i>how</i> to help them, where to find them,” you look back to Wedge who eyes you patiently. “But if you follow Snoke when he takes me, then you will. You’ll know where to find me, how to find me, you’ll know how to send help.” you pause, looking up quickly. “But not this precinct. Go straight to federal. There’s not enough people missing from here to create a following like his, this has to surpass state lines. Besides, our cops won’t help, anyways.”</p>
<p>“Why do you reckon they’re so hell-bent on keeping this quiet?” Wedge asks, clicking his tongue in thought.<br/>
“I think the chief, I think the other detectives...I think they know something. Or they’re scared of something, of Snoke. I don’t know for sure, but look - a little white boy with rich parents gets kidnapped and <i>nothing</i>? In any other town, this would be national. International, even. But this case isn’t. Ever think about that?”<br/>
Rose nods quickly. “Yes, yes, I did notice that. I always wondered why no one ever talked about him. Or the Dameron's.”<br/>
Wedge makes a noise of agreement. “Something’s not right here, that’s for damn sure.”<br/>
“Should we wire you?” Rose asks, and you shake your head furiously. “No, no, they might see it, that could ruin it.”<br/>
“I also don’t like the idea of following the car, that could get you killed real quick,” Wedge mumbles. “I’m thinking a tracker, you could drop it inconspicuously in the car or something.”<br/>
“Do you have one?” You look to him expectantly and he nods.<br/>
“Got a few from back in the day, but they still work.”<br/>
“Are they small enough? To not be seen?”<br/>
He winked. “They’ll work just fine, kid, believe me.”</p>
<p>So you spend the rest of the evening honing in on the details, of structuring a plan that will, hopefully, put you straight in the back of Snoke’s car. A plan that will bring you straight to Ben.<br/>
Rose contacts the appropriate organisations on behalf of the media, on behalf of the newspaper she works for, requesting a digital age progression. <br/>
“It could take a while,” she says. “But we don’t know how long you’ll be in there, and it’s worth a shot for anyone who might have seen him if he is allowed to leave sometimes, might help the feds build a case.”</p><p>

When Wedge and Rose finally retire for the evening, retreating to their respective homes to re-calibrate, to prepare for what tomorrow may or may not bring, you fall into your bed. You lay awake, restless, wondering if this will be the last time you struggle to find sleep, if it will be the last time you lay awake, your mind reeling through the ‘what if’s’ of Ben Organa-Solo. You hope that it is. You hope that tomorrow, you’ll see him. See that he’s alive, prove to yourself that this hasn’t been for nothing. You hope that tomorrow, you can tip the first domino, that you can start this process he’s deserved for so long. The process of bringing him <i>home</i>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
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</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter Five: Kylo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Love, Ren, is a hard feeling to describe,” he eyes Kylo cautiously, “When you love someone, you’ll do anything for them. Anything to keep them safe, to keep them with you.”<br/>Kylo shakes his head, pulling his lips between his teeth in agitated confusion.<br/>“I don’t understand,” he grits out. “Why would I want to keep someone with me? I’ve always been alone.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, this chapter is a little shorter, but things start to kick off from the next chapter onward - which is already written! So another update will be coming soon!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kylo is hauled out of his chambers with all the grace of a downright assault. He never asks why, never asks what he’s done wrong, when they come for him. He knows better. But today, Vicrul tells him, anyway. </p>
<p>“You’re the boss, today.” he grunts, gloved hands gripping Kylo’s bicep roughly, the six Knight’s surrounding him in a billowing cloud of dark cloaks and leather. Kylo thinks of the irony of it - of being dragged along like a helpless child while being told he is the one in charge. He’d laugh, if he had it in him. If he really <i>is</i> in charge, they’d let him walk. He almost says it, too. Almost tells them, almost commands them, to let go of him, to let him walk of his own accord, to allow him that dignity. But he doesn’t. He knows how that will end. Kylo knows that a beating in the hallway will cost him far more pride - what little he has of it - than remaining in his current position. So he remains silent, clenching his jaw. Keeps his eyes to the floor, so as not to see any of the passing faces. He knows he’s not supposed to look. </p>
<p>The heavy wooden doors of the throne room are slammed open, the crash echoing throughout the deserted hallways. He’s thrown onto his knees before Snoke’s throne, and only then, does he look up. The Knights retreat to the shadows of the dimly lit room, leaving Kylo alone before him, before Snoke. Kylo’s not dressed for the throne, he’s still in his day-robes. He’s tired, too. And angry. But he’s always angry.<br/>
His eye’s flick upward, meeting Snoke’s expectant glare. Kylo shifts onto one knee, bowing his head.<br/>
“Supreme Leader.”<br/>
Snoke tuts, saying nothing at first, simply regarding him with a crude snarl. Kylo fantasises, at night, when he lays down in his too-small military grade cot, about wiping that snarl clean off his sunken face. If only he could. If only, if <i>only</i>.<br/>
Snoke hums. “You’ll be overseeing things while I’m gone, Ren,” he taps his too-long, yellowing fingernails against the armrest of his throne. </p>
<p>Kylo doesn’t usually ask where he’s going, or why Snoke leaves. He used to, as a child, kicking and screaming and begging him not to go. Kylo didn’t - still doesn’t - have anyone else, no one else to look after him. The old maid that taught him was cruel and disinterested, and Brendol - he always loathed Kylo. He’d beat him, the same way he’d beat his own son, whenever he had the chance. As a child, his only saving grace was that Brendol would leave with Snoke. Still, though, he’d panic. Go into full-scale frenzies, not knowing how to control the emotions that burst from his chest, the sheer force of the hurricane inside him leaving him drained, exhausted. Shattered objects strewn across the floor, his hair stuck to his forehead by the sweat that would drip from his nose.<br/>
Now, though, now Kylo simply doesn’t care. He doesn’t care where Snoke goes, and he doesn’t care why. Today, however, is different. Today, Kylo feels brave. <i>Antagonistic</i>. </p>
<p>He gets into these moods sometimes. He knows they never serve him well. But once in a while, he thinks, it’s cathartic to verbalise what he’s actually thinking. He likes to do this on days where he knows Snoke has no choice but to leave him on the throne. It’s a small victory to Kylo - to find release through his words and still side-step punishment. </p>
<p>“Where are you going?”<br/>
Snoke cocks an eyebrow, leaning back into his seat. “Feeling brave today, are we?” he chides, lips lifting into a snarl. He grunts, only speaking again when Kylo remains silent, steadfast. “I’m going to find her.”<br/>
Kylo’s brow furrows. He knows, of course, what Snoke is inferring. He remembers the conversation over dinner, knows exactly what he means. But not <i>who</i>, nor does he understand <i>why</i>.<br/>
“Who is she?”<br/>
“You’ll soon see.”<br/>
“Why are you bringing her here?”<br/>
“I told you, son. Every great ruler, every great leader, they have a woman by their sides that fuels their power,” And the way Snoke says it, the way he leans forward as he speaks - Kylo knows he means it, knows he’s serious. “Love is what drives the dark side of the force, Ren. It’s what will fuel your power, it’s what will make you the Emperor that you are destined to be,” Snoke taps his fingernails on the armrest again, his mouth curling upward. “Don’t you ever wonder, Ren, what it’s like to be loved? And to love?”</p>
<p>Kylo’s heart hammers in his chest, his sudden show of bravery now faltering. Kylo doesn’t know what the word really means, no, but Kylo has always sought out to untangle the things his mind can’t comprehend. He has always wanted to learn, to know, to understand. He wants to know, wants to feel what this word entails. But to say as much, well, that would be giving Snoke what he wants. And Kylo isn’t much in the mood to do that, today.<br/>
So he says nothing. </p>
<p>“Ah, you do, Ren,” Snoke says, ignoring his silence. “You do. Of course you do.”<br/>
“How can I know if I want something, when I don’t know what it is?”<br/>
Snoke chuckles, then, and Kylo’s jaw clenches in indignation. He hates it, really loathes it, when Snoke laughs at him like this.<br/>
“Love, Ren, is a hard feeling to describe,” he eyes Kylo cautiously, “When you love someone, you’ll do anything for them. Anything to keep them safe, to keep them with you.”<br/>
Kylo shakes his head, pulling his lips between his teeth in agitated confusion.<br/>
“I don’t understand,” he grits out. “Why would I want to keep someone with me? I’ve always been alone.”<br/>
“And is that how you like it?”<br/>
“Yes.” Kylo states, without missing a beat. He doesn’t know any different, really. Doesn’t know, doesn’t understand, what it would be like to <i>have</i> someone.<br/>
Snoke laughs again, and it takes all of Kylo’s self control not to react, not to lunge forward, not to shout.<br/>
“You only think as much because you know no better,” Snoke mutters. “Rest assured, son. You will fall in love with her. I know you will.”<br/>
“What if you’re wrong? What if I won’t?” Kylo lifts his head proudly, defiant.<br/>
Snoke exhales roughly through his nose. “You’d be wise not to provoke me, Ren, you may be the Chosen One but you’re not immune to my fist,” Leaning forward, lifting himself off the throne, Snoke continues. “The force doesn’t lie, Ren,” he says, circling Kylo, where he remained on his knee. “If the force commands it, then it shall be.”</p>
<p>Snoke leans down, hauling Kylo to his feet roughly. Kylo grunts in surprise, but makes no move to distance himself as Snoke’s fingers grip him harder.<br/>
“I’ve arranged for your quarters to be...rejuvenated, while I’m gone,” Snoke says lowly. “You’ll soon understand, but for now, you’ll sit on that throne. Do as is expected of you,” his eyes flick downward, to Kylo’s loose robes. “And dress yourself appropriately.”<br/>
With that, Snoke releases him with a harsh shove, turning on his heel and stalking toward the door. Kylo hadn’t seen or heard Brendol come in, but he was there, waiting like a patient lap-dog for Snoke. Brendol’s eyes shifted to where Kylo stood, offering him a steely glare before disappearing behind the heavy exit doors. He didn’t have time to react, or to process his interaction with Snoke, before the sound of footsteps turned his attention to his left. Hux appeared from a side-door, carrying Kylo’s heavier robes and cowl.<br/>
“Supreme Leader,” he said, bowing his head. “Leader Snoke requested I bring these to you,” he stood before Kylo, dropping to one knee. “Your sword is in the usual hold.”</p>
<p>Kylo observes the auburn-haired man, the same pale skin, the same tired eyes, the same exasperated expression he sees in his own reflection. He knows that Hux is just as trapped as he is. He knows that Hux knows no more of the outside than he does. But still, Kylo finds himself jealous. Because Hux, he has more freedom. He can walk of his own accord, he can leave his quarters as he pleases, see whomever he wishes.<br/>
Kylo can’t do any of those things. </p>
<p>“Get up,” Kylo grunts, taking the clothes from Hux’s grasp. “You know I hate when you do that.”<br/>
And he does, he really does. He hates when Hux kneels before him - it’s not sincere. Hux and Kylo, they don’t hate each other, not really. But Hux has never been quiet about Kylo’s flaws, and Kylo has never taken to Hux’s anxiety-ridden behaviours.<br/>
“I only do it because I have to,” Hux snaps. “I hardly enjoy it.”<br/>
“Well you <i>don’t</i> have to, so stop.”</p>
<p>Hux rolls his eyes, watching as Kylo pulls his robes on over his clothes. He pulls the cowl over his shoulders, wrapping it around. He hates it, the cowl. He gets too hot, too constricted. He moves to the safe-hold in the wall that holds his crossguard. He nods to Hux, not wanting to directly ask for his help, but needing it. Because Kylo isn’t privy to the passcode, he’s not allowed access to his own belongings unless supervised. Hux moves stiffly toward the safe, and Kylo turns as he enters the passcode. When the steel door of the safe pops open, he moves away, allowing Kylo access to his sword.</p>
<p>“What are my duties for today?” Kylo murmurs, eyes trained on the glistening metal as he pulls it from its sheath.<br/>
“You have an execution,” Hux states, pulling out his planner. “Quite an important one, apparently.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">come say hi on tumblr!</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter Six</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You swallow your panic, fixing your sweating palms to your knees and hugging them to your chest. The car creeps to a halt next to you, and the window of the backseat rolls down slowly. And then he’s there, right in front of you, just like that photo.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So in this chapter, we have varying points of view (though I've made a conscious effort for it not to read too choppily). From this point on, chapters will likely be from a joint perspective (i.e, you and Kylo) if that makes sense.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Poe’s job is to burn the bodies. The bodies of passers by, of people whose curiosity didn’t spare them, people who wandered too close to the compound. It’s a rigorous routine, faultless, perfectly coordinated. The Snipers take them out, bullets splitting right through the windows of their cars, right through their skulls. Because they have cars, sometimes. Usually, though, they’re just hikers. People who came to the mountains in search of serenity, and found terror. </p>
<p>Poe’s job is to burn the bodies. The bodies of passers by, of people whose curiosity didn’t spare them, people who wandered too close to the compound. It’s a rigorous routine, faultless, perfectly coordinated. The Snipers take them out, bullets splitting right through the windows of their cars, right through their skulls. Because they have cars, sometimes. Usually, though, they’re just hikers. People who came to the mountains in search of serenity, and found terror. Poe doesn’t know this, though. Doesn’t know where they come from. Only the Snipers and the Knights can see over the walls. Once they’re dead, the Knights will take the car, if there is one. They’ll drive it to the nearby lake. Strip it for what it’s worth, then push it in, watch as it sinks. Poe doesn’t know this, either. All he knows is that when they bring him the bodies, that they’re dressed...odd. Different, different to him, to everyone else. They’re not in robes like they are. That’s how he knows they’re from the outside. His job is to cremate them, reduce them to ashes. He doesn’t know what becomes of the ashes, though. Doesn’t know what the Knights do with them. He doesn’t want to know, either. </p>
<p>But for all the things Poe doesn’t know, he makes up for with what they don’t know about <i>him</i>. They don’t know that Poe is building a resistance, a mutiny to overthrow Snoke. They don’t know that he has people who believe in him, they don’t know that he has something to protect, to lose, to care for. He has a following, but most importantly, he has Finn.<br/>
He wasn’t expecting it, to ever know happiness behind these walls. He knows no different, of course, but his parents - they did. They told him stories, drew him pictures. They told him of their wedding, and how they fell in love. Poe never thought he’d find that, not here. Not when the women are kept separate, locked inside their chambers. He never, ever expected to find it in Finn.<br/>
But he did.<br/>
And Force knows, he’ll protect it, protect him, with everything he has.<br/>
So, when Finn doesn’t show up at their regular rendezvous point - a rarely used hallway behind the crematorium - Poe panics. Because Finn is always there. He always shows. Because he <i>loves</i> him. Poe tears around the corner, beige robes rippling as he moves. He’s grabbing passersby, desperately pleading with them - “Have you seen Finn? Has anyone seen Finn?”<br/>
Because Poe knows, he knows this is bad, he knows something is wrong. He’s careening in the direction of Finn’s chambers when someone grabs him, clad in black and leather. He’s hauled into a crevice between two doors. Poe yelps in surprise, turning quickly to see the assailant. His shoulders drop slightly in disappointment - it isn’t Finn, but Poe knows who he is. </p>
<p>“They have him,” the man states, anxiously looking around the hallways. “Someone overheard him talking about the Resistance,” he continues, and Poe’s heart drops to his stomach. “They have him in the throne room.”<br/>
Poe lets out a helpless sound, choked, coming right from his throat.<br/>
“Snoke has him,” he mutters, thoughts flying through his mind at a million miles per second, his eyes falling shut. “He’ll kill him.”<br/>
Poe feels the hot tears as they pool behind his eyelids, the panic rising from his gut.<br/>
“Not Snoke,” the man counters. “Kylo Ren.”<br/>
Poe’s eyes fly open.<br/>
“K-Kylo has him?”<br/>
“Yes,” the man says, shooting another anxious glance into the hallway. “I can get you there, to the Throne Room.”<br/>
“You’d do that?”<br/>
The man nods.<br/>
“For the Resistance, anything.”</p>
<p>__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</p>
<p>You’re lingering in the middle of the same Walmart parking lot they’d taken Ben from. You figured it would be your best bet - it was the only place you’d known Snoke to have visited. Rose had picked your outfit - a white sundress, pale pink flats, and a little bracelet with a cherry charm attached. </p>
<p><i>“You have to look innocent,”</i> Rose had said as she laid the dress out on your bed. <i>“You have to look like a doe-eyed damsel in distress, that’s what men like him are looking for.”</i></p>
<p>But now, Rose sat in a nondescript Ford Focus on the other side of the lot, Wedge in the driver's seat, watching. Waiting.<br/>
And you, you’re sitting patiently on the hood of your car, heart hammering in your chest. If he comes, if Snoke shows up, if all goes to plan today - unlike the day before, and the day before that - your little cherry bracelet will be the only tie you have left to the outside world. There’s a GPS in it, one that will - with any luck - lead Wedge and Rose directly to the compound. Even if they confiscate it when you get there, at least they’ll know where you are. At least you won’t be lost. You hope. </p>
<p>You’ve been sitting here for a while, thinking. Thinking of all the ways this could go wrong - because, being honest, your seemingly clever ideas have never gotten you far. But still, you have to persist. You have to have faith that something, anything could give way to success. That you could - <i>can</i> - bring Ben home.<br/>
Your eyes flick to the entrance, and you see it, then. The black Lincoln town car, slowly approaching the empty parking spaces next to you. Your heart flies into your throat in anticipation, in fear. </p>
<p>
  <i>God, what are you doing?</i>
</p>
<p>You swallow your panic, fixing your sweating palms to your knees and hugging them to your chest. The car creeps to a halt next to you, and the window of the backseat rolls down slowly. And then he’s there, right in front of you, just like that photo. Grey, thinning skin, veiny and sunken.<br/>
Snoke.</p>
<p>It’s a sunny, breezy day. But the sunlight does him no favours, only brings out the yellow tone to his skin, only accentuates his visible age-spots. You swallow nervously, forcing your best angelic smile. </p>
<p>“Hello,” he says, voice low, but clear. “Are you waiting on someone?”<br/>
You shrug, twiddling your fingers nervously.<br/>
“For anyone to come along, really,” you shrug again out of nervousness. “My car won’t start, and I don’t really know the area.”<br/>
“No one in there could help you, no?” Snoke asks, nodding his head to the Walmart behind you. A valid point, but you have an answer for that. You have a whole damn script.<br/>
You look down nervously.<br/>
“I felt a bit anxious about walking right in and bothering someone,” you sigh dejectedly. “I don’t want to cause any trouble, I just want to go home.”<br/>
Snoke hums, something that you can only guess to be a poor attempt at a smirk forms on his face.<br/>
“Where do you live, darling? Where is home to you?”</p>
<p>You give him the name of a small town not far from yours. He clicks his tongue, and as if on queue, the driver exits the vehicle. He’s tall, dark haired, but too old to be Ben. The man walks to the back-seat door adjacent to where Snoke sits, and opens it.<br/>
“We’re headed that way, darling,” Snoke says, a false attempt at warmth in his voice. “Hop in beside me, dear, and we’ll get you home.”<br/>
You swallow, burying your hands in your lap to conceal your trembling limbs.<br/>
“Are you sure?” You bite your lip in feigned uncertainty. “I don’t want to be a bother.”<br/>
Snoke tuts, offering a wink. “My dear, it would be our pleasure.”</p>
<p>With that, you stand. You can feel the lightness of your body, how it feels like your whole soul is alight with anxiety. You take a breath, moving to circle the car. As you do, you steal one last glance at Wedge and Rose. You can see the anxiety in their figures, how Wedge is stock-still, how Rose has her knees tucked up beneath her chin. You give the faintest nod, one only they would know to pick up - a signal, a sign that you’re doing this. For them not to interfere.<br/>
The driver stands patiently, still holding the door for you. You give him a small smile, an offering of thanks, as you slide into the spacious car. The upholstery is bright red, and you can’t help but think of the colour of cherries, of your old favourite lipstick.<br/>
There’s another man in the vehicle, ginger-haired and burly, sitting in the front seat. He turns only once to observe you with a hostile glare. You sit in silence as the car exits the lot and turns onto the main road, and you can’t help but wonder why Snoke hasn’t asked you for your name.<br/>
Perhaps, he doesn’t care. Perhaps, he’ll try to give you a new one, anyway. <i>Perhaps, perhaps.</i></p>
<p>He moves, then, pulling something from the pocket of his suit jacket. The light that gleams across the window illuminates it for only a moment, though you can’t quite make out what it is.<br/>
He leans toward you, moving to touch your arm with a bony, frail hand. You flinch at the touch, and you fight to keep your disgust out of your expression. </p>
<p>“You know, darling,” he says, his tone deep, crude. “I’d ask you if your parents had ever warned you not to talk to strangers,” he inhales, bringing a syringe filled with clear liquid before your face with his other hand. “But I have a feeling, you know exactly who I am.”</p>
<p>You feel a sharp, stinging burn in your arm, and you gasp, your hand flying up to cover the wound. You try to speak, try to breathe, but you can’t. At least, it feels like you can’t. It feels like everything, your lungs, your throat, your eyes - they’re all numb. Your eyes move in and out of focus, Snoke’s dark figure retreating as your own moves forward of its own accord.<br/>
And then, black. </p>
<p>_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</p>
<p>Kylo orders the Knights to stand outside the throne room during executions. He can’t remember why he started doing this, why he demanded privacy - save for Hux, who would diligently stand at his side. But he’s glad he did, glad he can’t be witnessed by anyone else in his moments of hesitation, of weakness. Because it’s not always easy for him to swing that blade, he’s not always ready for the blood, the thud of the skull as it hits the tiled floor. </p>
<p>He sits on his throne, waiting. The throne room is quiet, the only sound is the thud, thud, thud of Hux pacing - as he always does - back and forth, back and forth.<br/>
“They never told me why this one is so important,” Hux says suddenly, breaking the silence. “They didn’t even tell me what the charge is.”<br/>
“They?” Kylo repeats, leaning forward, his sword between his legs, stabbing at the floor.<br/>
“Snoke,” Hux mutters. “And my father.”<br/>
Kylo hums.
“Well, how does it feel to be in the dark for once?” He twirls his sword. “Like me?”<br/>
Hux simply shoots him a look of irritation, his attempt at a response interrupted by the heavy doors crashing open. </p>
<p>Two Knights enter the room, either side of the struggling man they drag with them. His knees graze the tiles as they pull him along, finally throwing him down onto his shins at the foot of the throne. His hands are bound behind his back, and he struggles to steady himself. Trudgen, the Knight on the left, hauls his torso backward by his robes, keeping him upright. </p>
<p>“What’s the charge?” Hux asks urgently.<br/>
“Treason,” Trudgen states, before looking to Kylo, who has stood from the throne. “Will that be all, Supreme Leader?”<br/>
His tone is begrudging, steely, cold. He doesn’t enjoy speaking to Kylo like this, like he’s superior, and Kylo can tell as much.<br/>
“Yes,” Kylo mutters. “You’re excused.”</p>
<p>Kylo observes the man who kneels at his feet. There’s nothing distinguishable about him - a man in beige robes, with a black cotton bag secured over his head. He looks just like every other traitor he’s killed.<br/>
He moves to circle behind the man - he doesn’t like to stand in front of them when he kills them. He’s never thought about why. </p>
<p>“Wait!” The man suddenly cries out, and Kylo clenches his jaw in frustration. He hates it, hates it when they speak, when they try to talk themselves out of their certain death. It makes it harder, makes him hesitate - but he can’t disobey direct orders. He has to stay on this path, has to keep steadfast on his journey further into the dark side of the Force.</p>
<p>“You’re Kylo Ren, aren’t you?”<br/>
Kylo ignores him, ignores the panic in the man’s voice, ignores how his thighs shake as he leans back on his calves. Kylo moves into position, bringing the crossguard up and ready.<br/>
“You knew him,” The man continues. “You knew Poe.”<br/>
Kylo freezes. It feels like time stops, like the moment stretches on forever as his brows furrow, as his bottom lip begins to tremble. He suddenly and forcefully exhales an unsteady breath, unaware that he’d been holding it.<br/>
“You did,” the man says quickly. “You were friends, weren’t you?”<br/>
Kylo’s jaw clenches, and he can feel his molars grinding together with the tension. He’s losing control, losing his composure, and he knows, knows that Hux can see it, that he’s watching - waiting - for him to falter. He remains silent, eyes flicking briefly in panic to Hux, who is visibly tense.</p>
<p>“He misses you.”</p>
<p>Kylo cracks, then.</p>
<p>“Shut up,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “Or I’ll make your death a slow one.”<br/>
“He does,” the man ignores Kylo’s threat. “He really does.”<br/>
“I said shut up!” Kylo roars, fingers clenched so tightly around the hilt of his sword that his knuckles have turned white. “What could you ever know about Poe?” he growls, “He’s long dead.”<br/>
“What?” The man turns his head in the direction of Kylo’s voice. “Poe isn’t dead!”</p>
<p>Kylo almost drops his sword, but steadies himself, fights to keep his breathing under control as his body begins to betray him, giving away his panic, his <i>terror</i>. </p>
<p>“Supreme Leader-” Hux interjects anxiously, stepping forward, but Kylo silences him with a raised hand.<br/>
“Poe,” Kylo murmurs. “He’s alive?”<br/>
The man nods, and Kylo circles back around to his front, leaning forward and ripping the bag from Finn’s head.<br/>
Kylo doesn’t recognise him, but he needs to see him, needs to see his only tie to his friend. The friend he grieved. Hux inhales sharply, is about to speak just as the doors slam open once again, another Knight, another traitor.<br/>
Kylo steps back in confusion, and Hux regards the Knight incredulously. </p>
<p>“I was under the impression that we had only one execution today, Vicrul,” Hux says, watching as Vircul hauls another man toward the throne.<br/>
“Well,” he grunts, pushing the man down to his knees next to Finn. “Now, you have two,” he looks up to Kylo, whose eyes are transfixed on the concealed man before him. </p>
<p>“Will that be all, Supreme Leader?”</p>
<p>Kylo nods faintly, clearly distracted. He doesn’t pay heed to how quickly Vicrul exits the room, or how Hux is almost vibrating in agitation. No, Kylo is distracted by the glint of a necklace that lays just beneath the hem of the bag concealing the man’s head.<br/>
Kylo knows who that necklace belongs to. </p>
<p>Hux watches in stunned silence as Kylo’s sword clatters to the floor, sliding across the cold tiles. He leans forward, and tentatively removes the bag from Poe’s head. He steps back in shock, the bag slipping from his gloved hands. Poe has grown older, leaner, stronger  - he’s not a boy, not anymore. Kylo sucks in a breath, watching as Poe immediately turns to Finn, exhaling sharply in relief when he sees him, alive, smiling, right next to him.</p>
<p>“Finn,” he breathes. “I thought I was too late.”<br/>
“I’m right here,” Finn nods. “For now.”</p>
<p>Poe looks to Kylo, who stands above him, trembling, horrified, scared. He's confused, he's so, so confused, and Poe can tell, can tell by the way his brow furrows, how his breath is coming too quickly.<br/>
"Kylo-" Poe starts, but Hux is quick to step in, hurriedly picking the crossguard up from the floor and shoving it back into Kylo's hand.<br/>
"That's <i>quite</i> enough," he says hurriedly, positioning himself next to Kylo. "Let's not allow your personal endeavours to interfere with orders from Leader Snoke."<br/>
Kylo turns to him slowly, his glare is cold, blood hot. Hux takes a step back.<br/>
"You assume to give <i>me</i> orders, Hux?" And though his voice shakes slightly, Hux says no more, and retreats into the shadows behind him.<br/>
Kylo turns back to Poe, who is waiting calmly at his feet. Poe always has been calm, collected, patient. It's something Kylo sought to learn from him. Though, now, he thinks that maybe, he already has. Despite his temper, despite his shortcomings, Kylo has been calm amidst a terrifying storm for many years, now. </p>
<p>“Please,” Poe says softly, evenly, “Don’t do this.”<br/>
“I thought you were dead,” Kylo remarks, “They told me you were dead.”<br/>
“Well, I’m not,” Poe smiles. “I’m right here, buddy. And I’d like to stay that way.”<br/>
“My orders are to kill him,” Kylo nods to Finn, who watches quietly. “Not you.”<br/>
“Ky,” Poe whispers, and the nickname startles Kylo. It’s been so long, so, so long since he’s heard it. “Please, Ky, I love him. Don’t do this.”<br/>
"Love," Kylo repeats. <i>That word again.</i><br/>
“Yes,” Poe affirms, nodding. “Love. I can’t lose him, Ky.”<br/>
“You’ll do anything to keep him with you,” Kylo murmurs, Snoke’s words echoing in his head.<br/>
“Yes,” Poe says. “Yes, I would, anything.”</p>
<p>Kylo swallows thickly. He’s unsure, conflicted. He knows, knows well that he can’t disobey his orders, knows that will earn him a punishment like nothing he’s ever known. Knows he can’t, not while Hux is watching. But Kylo thinks, <i>really</i> thinks, about killing Poe. About killing the only friend, the only kindness he’s ever known. He knows he has to, knows he doesn’t have a choice, but he can’t let Hux see how that will undoubtedly destroy him.<br/>
Hux doesn’t have much faith in him, anyway. Kylo can’t afford to lose what little faith there is left. Because he knows, deep down, that killing Poe is a test. It’s his next hurdle, his next battle to continue on into the dark side, toward his destiny. Toward a throne that will be <i>his</i>, and only his. And true enough, Kylo doesn’t want the throne. But what he does want - well, he needs the throne to achieve it. </p>
<p>Kylo looks once more at Poe, who gazes up at him with soft, pleading eyes. He turns to Hux, offering him a stern glare.</p>
<p>“Leave us,” he orders. “<i>Now.</i>”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">Come say hello on tumblr!</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter Seven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is <b>long</b>, I'm sorry! Also, I haven't specified the name Snoke gives you upon your arrival to the cult, purely because I don't want readers <i>fake</i> name to actually be one of your <i>real</i> names, so imagine whatever name you'd like.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’re restrained to a chair when you wake. Your eyes blink once, twice, three times open and adjust to the darkness that surrounds you. The room is illuminated only by a single hanging light bulb, directly over your head. You think of the irony of that, of all your bright ideas, your clever fucking ideas that have you sitting, bolted to this chair in the first place. You squint, trying to see into the darkness. You hear him, then.<br/>
“You’re quite the actress, you know,”<br/>
<i>Snoke</i>.<br/>
You say nothing, clenching your jaw, your fists, nails digging into the palm of your hands.<br/>
He continues despite your silence, “Had I not known of you, you really could have convinced me you were lost,” he chuckles darkly and only then does he come into your view. Sagging, dry, wrinkled skin draped across hollowed cheeks, the shadows cast across his features giving him a ghastly appearance.<br/>
“But I know why you’re here, girl.”<br/>
You say your name defiantly. “Not ‘girl’.”<br/>
In one swift movement, he’s up in your face, in your personal space, bony fingers gripping your jaw and forcing your eyes to meet his. You take note of what you see there, in his eyes.<br/>
<i>Nothing</i>.</p>
<p>“I’ll call you whatever I damn well please,” he spits as he speaks and you wince. He releases you roughly, and begins to pace around the chair you sit in. 
“You’re here for him, for our prince, aren’t you?”<br/>
Your brow furrows, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. But you don't. You know well that Snoke can kill you at any second, can end your life right there and then if he feels like it. And all of this would be for nothing. Ben would never go home, the Dameron's disappearance would remain unsolved, the cult, or whatever this is, would still be in operation. No, failure is not an option. Not now, not here. Not this.<br/>
“Your prince?”<br/>
“Don’t play coy with me, girl, you’ll soon see where it gets you,” he leans forward, observing you, scrutinizing you. The intensity of his stare makes your lips tremble, your eyes water. You’re trying, really trying not to let him get into your head like this, to let him scare you like this - but he does. He <i>really</i> does.<br/>
“You’re here to try and take him, aren’t you?”<br/>
“I don’t know what you’re talking about-” you shake your head, and when you open your mouth to continue, a sharp sting stuns you to silence, your head jerking to the side. The force of his palm, of his yellowing nails against the soft skin of your cheek had split your skin clean in two, blood beginning to spill down into your mouth.<br/>
“What did I say about playing stupid, Detective?”<br/>
You blink, panic rising in your stomach like churning waves. “N-no, h-how-”<br/>
“I know everything, girl, believe me, <i>everything</i>.”</p>
<p>You swallowed thickly, collecting yourself.<br/>
“Well if you knew everything, you’d know that I left. That I’m not a detective anymore.”<br/>
Snoke hummed.<br/>
“I did know. And I figured you’d still come, on your ridiculous personal crusade. And how right I was,” he smiled, “And now I have you, right where I want you. You’re not getting out of here, sweetheart, you’re staying right here. And what a perfect little bride you’ll make for Kylo Ren,” He begins pacing again, and you feel sick at the thought. The thought of this, <i>all</i> of this. “He’ll fall for you, I know he will. He’ll <i>love</i> you.”</p>
<p><i>Kylo Ren</i>. You’ve heard that name before. You just can’t remember <i>where</i>.<br/>
“You see, sweetheart, I’ve never been much of a matchmaker myself, but you,” he pauses momentarily, turning to face you. “You’re the perfect fit for him, aren’t you?”<br/>
“I don’t even know what he looks like, I don’t even know who he <i>is</i>.”<br/>
“Oh but you will, and you do. You’ve spent so long, so much time on him, you care for him. Without even knowing him, you care for him. And he’s such a weak-willed boy, he’ll fall right into those loving little hands of yours.”<br/>
It dawns on you, then, where you’ve heard that name. The letters. The boy. <i>Ben</i>. You swallow, though your throat is so dry, so sore, it sticks to the roof of your mouth. It’s confirmation that he’s alive, at least, and you allow yourself that brief moment to feel relief, to feel certainty that there is a body, there is a <i>man</i> to bring home. But you realise then, that if he’s been stuck here, under Snoke’s thumb all of this time - then why does Snoke want him to fall in love, to find joy, to find serenity in the presence of another? A man so cruel, so brash, so awful - surely, he doesn’t care about Ben finding love, or finding peace. </p>
<p>“What’s the point of this? Why do you want him to...to love <i>me</i>? To love at all?”<br/>
“Because, darling, that’s what will make him stronger. And I <i>need</i> him stronger,” Snoke snarls, "There's a war coming, my dear, and he will lead the fight."<br/>
You feel the panic, then. The fear, the daunting reality of your situation sets in your blood like a stream freezing over. Your breath catches in your throat, and you resist the urge to cry, to let your tears fall freely. Because you won’t let Snoke break you down, no. Not when you have a job to do. </p>
<p>“Now, what’ll we call you..” Snoke trailed off in thought, circling you.<br/>
“I have a name.”<br/>
“I know you have a name, <i>girl</i>,” he spat. “But that won’t be your name here. When you come here, you are reborn, you are given to the force.”<br/>
“Is that why you stripped his identity from him? Named him Kylo Ren?” you spit out, blood trickling down onto your chin as you speak, “Does he even know his real name?”<br/>
Snoke chuckles darkly. “Oh, little girl, do you <i>really</i> think he’ll believe you if you tell him?”</p>
<p>You say nothing, because really, you don’t know. You hope he does, you hope he listens - but how are you to know? How are you to gauge what Ben will and will not accept or if he’ll speak to you at all?</p>
<p>“You see,” Snoke continues, crouching in front of you. You feel your pulse quicken, limbs shaking involuntarily because as defiant as you feel, you’re still, well, <i>petrified.</i><br/>
“His loyalty to me will <i>never</i> yield. Not for anyone, not even you, no matter how foolish your love will undoubtedly make him. He will remain here, and he will remain loyal, not just to me, but to his destiny. To the force, to the throne. He knows what he has to do, he knows this throne is his. Believe me, girl, he won’t give it up for anyone.”<br/>
You clench your jaw tightly, hands pulling at your restraints. </p>
<p>“Eager, are we?” Snoke snarls. “I think it’s about time you two met.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The Knights open the door with little care, thrashing it open so violently that it hits against the wall. They throw you carelessly inside the dark room, down onto the floor. You catch yourself with your hands, but not before the poorly varnished wooden floor scrapes your knees. You hiss in pain, feeling the skin rip as splinters tear through it - the sting a sharp contrast to the now dull throb of the split skin on your cheek. You feel tears prick at your eyes, less from the pain, and more from the fright of it, more from the force of how it feels to be imprisoned. You should have expected this, though. Should have known what this would entail - but no, you were naive to it. A victim of your own tunnel vision, of your own crusade. You blink the tears away, screwing your eyes shut in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, this is a dream and maybe, just maybe, you’ll wake up from it. </p>
<p>The sound of movement from somewhere in the room startles you, alerting you to the fact that you’re not alone. </p>
<p>You look up, lifting your head slowly from the floor. You’re stunned when you see him, almost choking on your own breath. Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the lighting - the warm, dim candlelight a striking contrast to the fluorescent beams of light that had been all but blinding as you were dragged down the hallway only seconds ago.</p>
<p>He stands at the very back of the room, putting as much distance between you as he possibly can. You’re immediately struck by the sheer size of him - you hadn’t anticipated that, for him to be so huge. You actually had quite a few reservations over his height - his mother is so petite, and his father stands at just over six foot. It was anyone’s guess, really, if he’d reach his father’s height or not. Clearly, though, he’d surpassed it. You cock your head slightly to get a better look at him. His dark hair is pushed back from his face, as though he had been raking his hands through it not long ago. His eyes meet yours then, flicking upward from where his gaze had been settled at your knees. You notice how pale he is - and though you know it’s likely because he rarely goes outside, that it’s a heartbreaking effect of his life within these walls, you can’t help but think about how it makes him look somewhat ethereal.<br/>
<i>Ben Organa</i>.<br/>
You sniffle, straightening your body and bringing yourself into a seated position. You bite back your sobs, blink away your tears. Though, now that you’re confronted with the subject of your mission, of your damn near <i>obsession</i> - you find yourself lost for words. What do you say? How do you articulate to him how his case has possessed you, enraptured you since it first landed on your desk? How do you tell him that you’re here to save him? Do you tell him at all?<br/>
You swallow thickly, steeling yourself. </p>
<p>“Hi,” you whisper, your voice hoarse. “Kylo Ren, isn’t it?”<br/>
His eyes are wide, almost frenzied. He’s apprehensive, this much you can tell. He nods curtly, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. His guard is up, and you’re certain it won’t be easy to breach it. You nod, flinching slightly as the scratches on your knees begin to burn.<br/>
“Pleasure to meet you,” you say,  and though your tone is mildly sarcastic, the joke is lost on him. He remains silent, and you try to contain your nerves, your frustration. You assumed he’d be quiet, that he wouldn’t be much of a talker, but you <i>need</i> him to talk to you.<br/>
“Do you know why I’m here?”<br/>
His eyes stay stuck to yours, and he remains un-moving, showing no signs that he’s even heard you.<br/>
“I’m asking because I still don’t really get it,” you explain, fiddling with the hem of your robes. “I don’t get what I’m supposed to <i>be</i> for you, like, what I’m supposed to...<i>do</i>.” </p>
<p>That thought had really only occurred to you, then. Despite Snoke’s words, despite his taunts, your mind had remained focused only on Ben, on your mission to get him out, get him home. Your fixation had only now begun to falter, allowing you to see what may well be the bigger picture. That you may only be an object to be used, then later discarded, killed before you achieved your goal. That you may not be the first.</p>
<p>“No,” he says finally, the deep baritone of his voice startling you. “He didn’t tell me anything. Just your name. And that you’d be staying here,” his eyes darted around the room. “With me.”<br/>
“Did he say...You know, why?”<br/>
Kylo is silent for only a beat before he says, “No, I was going to ask you that.”<br/>
“Has anyone else stayed here before?”<br/>
Because you <i>have</i> to know - would you be the next in a long line of dead bodies, of forced brides, of failed attempts at strengthening Kylo Ren? You can’t help but wonder if Snoke sought out others, other detectives or passersby that looked a little too hard into Ben’s case. You can't help but ponder if this is the fate of anyone who asks too many questions.<br/>
But you notice, then, that Kylo only looks confused by you question.<br/>
“No,” he says slowly, hesitant to admit his lonesome reality. “It’s only ever been me.”<br/>
You nod, accepting his answer.<br/>
<i>Name. He said he knew your name.</i><br/>
“He told you my name?”<br/>
He says a name, but the wrong one. He says the one Snoke had given you.<br/>
“That’s not my name, don’t call me that,” You snap, and you feel a pang of guilt for your aggression. But it’s hitting you now, the reality of your situation, and it’s taking all the strength you have left to quell your panic.<br/>
Kylo looks to the closed door The Knights had just walked out of, gesturing beyond it, inferring Snoke. “That’s what he said, he said that was your name.”<br/>
“Do you believe everything that troglodyte tells you?” you chide bitterly, eyes now red raw with tears that you’re failing to withhold. You know you should have expected this, expected that none of this would be easily done, that you’d endure the harsh reality of Ben’s life for yourself. Kylo looks taken aback by your venom, confused, even, and you feel a wave of regret crash over you.<br/>
“I’m sorry,” you murmur.<br/>
“What does that mean?” he asks, ignoring your apology.<br/>
“What, ‘I’m sorry’?”<br/>
“No, the word you said before, the word you called him.”<br/>
“Troglodyte?”<br/>
“Yes, that. I don’t know that word.”</p>
<p>You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you.<br/>
“It means, uh, it means like..” you pause, sniffling, trying to formulate a response he’ll understand. “A long, long time ago, before we had what we have now, before we could build or knew how to read or write, humans lived in caves. Troglodyte is a word you can use to describe us back then, before we were civilised. But now, people use it as an insult. Usually to call someone stupid.”<br/>
“Why?”<br/>
“Why do people use it as an insult?”<br/>
He nods and you shrug. “I don’t know. They just do.”<br/>
He doesn’t look satisfied with your answer, but he leaves it alone, and moves to sit on the edge of the foot of the bed. He runs his hands along the silk covers.<br/>
“This is new.” he says plainly.<br/>
“The bed?”<br/>
He nods. “And this,” he gestures to the silk of the sheets, to the pillows. “I never had this, anything like this, before. Before you.”<br/>
You’re silent for a moment, thinking of all he likely went through. Of the discomfort, of the pain. But he’s <i>talking</i>, willingly, and you encourage him further.<br/>
“What did you have before?”<br/>
He looks up. “Smaller. It was smaller, harder,” he paused for a moment, observing the sheer size of the bed he now sat on. “I fit in it as a boy but not when I grew.”<br/>
The thought makes your heart constrict, makes you want to weep - the thought of this lost soul growing up so alone.<br/>
“I’m sorry,” you say solemnly. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”<br/>
Kylos’ brow furrows in honest confusion. He shakes his head slightly.<br/>
“Why are you sorry?”<br/>
“The word ‘sorry’ doesn’t always have to be an apology,” you explain, “It can mean...it can be an offering of sympathy, that you feel bad that someone went through something horrible.”<br/>
“Why would you feel bad?” he asks, and his question is genuine. “You weren’t here, it wasn’t you.”<br/>
“It’s a thing called empathy. It means that you feel for people when they hurt.”<br/>
Kylo blinks, and you realise then, that he may have never felt empathy before.<br/>
“Does that feeling sound familiar to you?” you ask him, and his eyes flick up to meet yours. “Do you think you’ve felt that before?”</p>
<p>He doesn’t answer you, but the way he shifts, the way his eyes turn glassy, the way his lip quivers, the way his breathing hitches - it tells you that he <i>has</i>. That he still does. That he thinks he shouldn't.<br/>
He gets up, moving to the other side of the bed, facing away from you. You fall into an uncomfortable silence, and you ponder whether or not it’s acceptable to move from your position on the floor. Your legs are beginning to hurt, the hardwood offering your bones no support. You don’t want to make him nervous, though, or any more uncomfortable than he already is. You need him to <i>trust</i> you, you need him to listen to you. </p>
<p>“What is your name, then?” He asks suddenly, his words echoing around the room.<br/>
You don't answer at first, you simply look at him, studying the back of his head. His raven hair falls just above his shoulders, curling in waves around his crown.<br/>
“You said that wasn’t your name,” he continues, turning his head to the side, half looking at you, “So what <i>is</i> your name?”<br/>
You tell him, your voice soft, worrying that the guards on the other side of the door will hear you. After a moment, Kylo repeats the word, enunciating each syllable, letting the word roll off his tongue.<br/>
“Yeah,” you affirm, “That’s it.”<br/>
“I’ve never heard that name before,” he murmurs, “I don’t know many names, though.”<br/>
“That’s okay,” you offer a weak smile just as he turns to properly face you. “I hadn’t heard the name ‘Kylo’ before, either.”<br/>
He hums.<br/>
“I like your name better,” he says, half to himself. “Its…” he trails off, brow furrowing in frustration. You quickly realise that he doesn’t know the word he’s looking for, he hasn’t learned the word to use for what he’s trying to articulate. He shakes his head dismissively, intending to abandon the train of thought.<br/>
“No, it's okay,” you say hurriedly, sitting up a little straighter. “Can you describe what you’re trying to say? I can help you find the word you’re looking for.”<br/>
He looks at you, puzzled, unsure. As though he’s contemplating whether or not to trust you with the task of helping him with his own thoughts. But he’s opening up, you can tell, like a flower exposed to sunlight.<br/>
“I was going to say nice,” he mumbles. “But it felt too weak.”<br/>
“Pretty?”<br/>
His eyebrows raise expectantly, waiting for you to explain the definition.<br/>
“It means...like, when something is really nice to look at, or to hear, you can call it ‘pretty’,”<br/>
Your cheeks heat up slightly at your poor descriptive skills - you can only hope he understands what you mean.<br/>
“Like, music, or flowers and butterflies,” you continue. “They can be pretty.”<br/>
His brow furrows and his jaw tenses.<br/>
“I don’t know what they are,” he says plainly. “I’ve never heard those words.”<br/>
You feel your heart crack for him.<br/>
“They don’t let you outside the walls, do they?”<br/>
He shakes his head.<br/>
“Is that where you come from? Outside?”<br/>
You nod, and his eyes fall to the floor. You can see how desperate he is, how badly he wants to know anything that exists outside the dull grey of the compound.<br/>
“Maybe one day, I can show you a flower or a butterfly,” you speak carefully, not wanting to push him away. “Or even draw them for you.”</p>
<p>His mouth moves slightly as he thinks, then nods slowly. He shifts, getting up from his place on the bed. He walks toward you, his strides slow, hesitant. He looms over you, the sheer size of his figure blocking out the candle light. You think, at first, that he’s going to help you up, but he doesn’t. Though, you figure that is likely what he had intended to do, when he started moving. But now, as he stands over you, sees how close you are - he panics. He doesn’t know, really, how to touch people. Because he doesn’t, ever. <i>He</i> is touched, of course. He’s hit, he’s grabbed, kicked and manhandled. But Kylo doesn’t quite understand how to touch another human being, not anymore.<br/>
He would have helped Poe up from the floor, would have hauled him to his feet. But that was then, that was when he was a boy. That was when he last knew affection, friendship.<br/>
He doesn’t know how to touch <i>you</i>. A creature he’s never seen before, a body he doesn’t understand.<br/>
<i>Pretty</i>, he thinks.<br/>
So he backs away, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows thickly. </p>
<p>“You should get up,” he says quickly, turning away. “The floor, it’s hard. It’ll hurt your knees.”</p>
<p>So you do, pulling yourself up onto shaking limbs. Kylo glances back at you as you do, and he notices the glint of blood on the floor, the rip in your robes where the wood had torn through the thin fabric. He knows what that’s like - it’s happened to him so many times now, that his knees are littered with faded purple scars. He knows what it’s like to sting, to bleed. He disappears into a side room that you can only assume is a bathroom.<br/>
“This is new, too,” he says from inside. “I didn’t have this before you.”<br/>
You raise your brows, wondering why Snoke had made such lavish arrangements - well, lavish in terms of Kylo’s reality - for <i>you</i>.<br/>
“Oh,” you say, your heart breaking for him again.<br/>
“Supreme Leader said women <i>need</i> their own bathrooms,” he says, reappearing in front of you, holding wads of tissue paper. He doesn’t hand them to you, though. He holds them awkwardly in his own hands for a moment, and Kylo does contemplate reaching out to give them to you, to place them in your hands. But he doesn’t, decides that would be too close, and deposits them on the bed instead.<br/>
“Why is that?” he asks as he steps away from you, and you realise that he’s still talking about the bathroom. You laugh only slightly, shrugging your shoulders.<br/>
“I think he’s implying vanity,” you say, reaching out to touch the tissue. You hear Kylo hum slightly, and you realise that he probably doesn’t understand what you mean, doesn’t understand what it is to be vain. But he says nothing more of it, and he turns his attention back to the tissues. He watches as you pick them up hesitantly.<br/>
“For your knees,” he states, “and your face.”</p>
<p>He gestures with his index finger to the gash across your cheek. He doesn’t need to ask if it was Snoke, he knows it was. He feels a pang of something for you then, something like sorrow.<br/>
<i>Empathy</i>, he remembers. He swallows, not knowing if he should say so, not knowing if it’s appropriate for him to tell you that he understands, that he’s felt it too. He wants to, wants to show you that he won’t hurt you like that, he has no desire to. But he’s afraid. And he doesn’t know what of.<br/>
He swallows, watching as you sit on the edge of the bed, fumbling with your robes to dab at the wounds. You turn your head to observe him, then, and his eyes meet yours - still wide, but no longer frenzied. He’s settled somewhat, and the thought comforts you.</p>
<p>“Does he do it to you too?” You ask, and Kylo only blinks in response, not fully understanding what you mean.<br/>
“Hit, you, I mean.”<br/>
He’s silent, un-moving for a moment, before he nods.<br/>
“Does he do it a lot?”<br/>
Kylo shifts, “Enough,” he mumbles, “He does it enough.”<br/>
You nod then, sensing the shift in his demeanour. You decide that’s enough prying for today, fearing he’ll shut you out.<br/>
You turn to eye the large bed, the silk sheets. You clear your throat.<br/>
“I guess we both sleep here?” you say, patting the mattress softly. Kylo says nothing, though, simply shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he stands idly at the foot of the bed.<br/>
“Have you ever slept beside someone before?” you ask, sensing his discomfort. Kylo shakes his head.<br/>
“Never.”<br/>
You nod in understanding.<br/>
“That’s okay, look,” you say, getting up and standing in front of the bed. You draw an invisible line down the middle with your index finger, and Kylo raises his eyebrows in confusion.<br/>
“This can be my side, and that can be yours,” you turn to face him then, and his eyes flick curiously between you and the bed. You continue, “That way, we don’t have to touch each other, and you can have enough space to move around in your sleep.”<br/>
You want him to realise you’re not a threat, that you’re in this - whatever this is - with him. That he’s not alone. Not anymore.<br/>
Kylo nods slowly, eyes meeting yours for only a moment before he turns his back to you, moving to open a closet you hadn’t noticed before. He returns to the bed after several seconds, placing a black satin night-dress on the bed. Kylo doesn’t seem to really understand the significance of it, or why you’re eyeing it so cautiously. He thinks, maybe, you haven’t seen one of these before, either.<br/>
“Supreme Leader said this is your sleepwear,” he mumbles, cocking his head slightly, “I don’t really know what it is, though, it’s not like mine,” he nods to his own sleepwear, black robes made of a lighter, jersey material that are folded at the foot of the bed. </p>
<p>You make a noise of discontentment. Of <i>course</i>, that’s what Snoke would have you wearing. Of <i>course</i>, he’d have you prancing around in lingerie in front of the man you came here to rescue. It annoys you, the inappropriateness of it all, the objectivity of your body - but the practicality is equally as tormenting. The compound is  cold, freezing, almost. The skimpy satin will offer little protection, and you have half a mind to stay in your current robes, only they’re sticky and blood soaked at the knees, and they wrap around your arms in an uncomfortable manner.<br/>
So, you simply nod your head and take the garment into your hands, turning toward the bathroom.</p>
<p>“I’m going to change my clothes in here, so that you can’t see me, okay?” you gesture to his sleepwear, “You should change while I’m in here, so I can’t see you either.”</p>
<p>Kylo nods, and he’s grateful for the privacy - having had to quell his panic about undressing in front of you, too. Once you shut the door, once you’re out of his sight, he releases the breath he’d been holding. He changes quickly, becoming tangled in his robes as he does - but he’s panicked, he doesn’t want you to see him, see his scars, his bruises, his failures. He trips slightly in his rush, catching himself on the bed frame. He sighs in frustration, finally fitting into his sleepwear. He moves to sit on the bed, then, not quite sure what to do with himself. He hasn’t been, really, since you got here. Hasn’t been sure of what to say or where to look. Though your robes are heavy, he can tell your body is different to his - softer, curving at points where his own body remains straight and hard. Your voice is lighter, higher than his, and you’re <i>nicer</i>. You’re <i>kind</i>. And though Kylo knows this could be a trick, that Snoke could be planning something sinister, that you could be here to betray him - he <i>wants</i> to talk to you, to listen to the air of your voice, to bask in the kindness that he has been so fortuitously allowed. </p>
<p>You emerge from the bathroom then, and Kylo’s racing thoughts are immediately stunned into silence. From the first moment he saw you, he’d never seen anything like you - but this is different. To see so much of you, so much of your soft skin, your curves, laid bare right before his eyes - he can’t help the way his mouth parts slightly in awe. He blinks, catching himself and swiftly turns his attention to your ankles, where he deems safe. He clears his throat.</p>
<p>“What?” You ask, thinking he had been intending to speak.<br/>
Kylo shakes his head, “Nothing.”<br/>
You round the bed to your side, climbing quickly underneath the sheets. Kylo follows your movements, pushing himself under the silk, leaving plenty of space between you. He turns on his side facing the wall, his back to you.<br/>
“I thought you were going to say something is all,” you say, curling into yourself for warmth. You hadn’t thought you’d be able to sleep, not under such circumstances, not with such anxiety eating away at you. But you feel the pull of your dreams, of slumber, and a feeling of safety washes over you like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Just as your senses succumb to sleep, you think you hear him speak, think you hear him say that word you’d taught him earlier.</p>
<p>“Pretty.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">come talk to me on tumblr!</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter Eight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Lots of dialogue and chatting here, mostly building on your developing relationship with Kylo.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kylo is in the same position when you wake - his back facing you, curling in on himself. Silent.  You notice how his legs are bent upward slightly, how his arms curl into his chest, making himself smaller. You wonder, for a moment, if he’s moved at all in his sleep, though you quickly realise that he likely hasn’t, that he probably didn’t have room to toss and turn in his old cot, that he probably didn’t even have enough space to lay comfortably at his full height. And your heart aches for him, aches for the thought of him training himself to sleep in such a constrained manner. Aches for how this boy has endured his entire life in discomfort and pain, even unable to find a comfortable solace in his dreams. </p><p>You lay there on your side for a moment, watching him - how still he is, how you can barely hear his breathing - and wonder if he’s awake, or still dreaming. You wonder what he dreams of, if he dreams at all. You realise, as you look around the windowless room, that you have no idea what time it is, or how long you’ve been asleep for. You’re not sure if it’s morning, or if it’s still somewhere in the midnight hours. Your room has no clocks, and Kylo, you notice, isn’t wearing a watch. You wonder if, perhaps, there’s another way to tell the time, so you tentatively reach forward, intending to tap Kylo on the shoulder. But before your hand even comes within a foot of him, you flinch, yanking your hand back as he suddenly speaks, his tone deep and flat. </p><p>“You’re awake.” </p><p>Your heart leaps from the fright, and you feel almost ashamed to have been reaching for him. But he <i>couldn’t</i> have known, he couldn’t have seen you reach for him without turning his head, without looking at you. Was he so anxious, so precariously high strung that he had felt the imperceptible shift of your weight as your hand moved? Was he listening to your breathing as you slept, and noticed the change as you woke?<br/>
You breathe out through your nose, shifting slightly.<br/>
“How did you know?”<br/>
Kylo doesn’t answer you, though. He remains completely still, not moving from the position he’d been sleeping in. You abandon the question, and move to lay on your back, eyes trained on the wooden beams of the ceiling as you ask him your next question.<br/>
“How did you sleep?”</p><p>Though you can’t see it, Kylo’s brows furrow in confusion.<br/>
“Why are you asking me that?” He asks, genuinely curious.<br/>
You turn your head on the pillow to face the back of his head, his hair tousled only slightly from how little he’s moved.<br/>
“Well, it’s your first time sleeping in a bed this big, isn’t it? Was it better than the cot?”<br/>
He chews his lip in thought, analysing how his body feels. True enough, he isn’t sore, and feels marginally well rested.<br/>
“It was more comfortable, yes,” he turns his head then, finally sparing you a sideways glance over his shoulder. “Do you often ask people that question?”</p><p>The laugh that immediately erupts from your chest startles him, and he cranes his neck around further to look at you. Though he’s confused, and somewhat offended that you may be laughing at him - he decides he likes the sound of your laugh. He’s only ever heard Snoke and Brendol laugh - at least, that’s all he’s heard recently - and they sound nothing like yours. While theirs are guttural, rough, brash, yours is like nothing he can describe. He remembers Poe’s laugh - though only  vaguely - and how it annoyed him sometimes when Poe would direct his laughter at him. Your laugh, though, it’s different from the rest. Yours, he enjoys.<br/>
Your laughter has tapered off into a quiet chuckle when you open your eyes that had fallen shut in your brief hysterics, and you tilt your head to face him. His expression is unreadable, though you can only assume that he’s curious, confused as to why you’re laughing.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” you apologise, “I’m not laughing at you, it’s just...Yeah, I guess I would regularly ask that question, most people do after sleeping around someone. But now that you say it, it is kind of weird.”<br/>
“Weird?” Kylo turns to face you further. He doesn't know this word.<br/>
“Strange,” you say, “Unusual. It means the same thing.”<br/>
Kylo hums, turning entirely on his right side to face you properly, though still leaving several feet between you on the large mattress.<br/>
“Then why don’t you just say ‘unusual’? Why are there so many words for the same...thing?”<br/>
You shift onto your side to face him.<br/>
“There’s usually more than one word that you can use to describe something, or to say the same thing. They’re called synonyms.”<br/>
Kylo doesn’t look pleased with that fact, and you watch as his gaze shifts downward, eyes narrowing. </p><p>“I can try sticking to words that you know,” you offer, “To make things easier to understand.”<br/>
Kylo’s eyes move back to yours.<br/>
“I want to learn other words,” he says plainly, “I want to understand.” </p><p>And he does, and he knows that he can, knows that he’d be capable of it if he was given the opportunity. He knows that he never forgets anything that he learns. Kylo is smart, and he knows he is, though he struggles to articulate it. He hopes, though, that you believe that he is, too. He hopes he can show you. </p><p>“Can you write words?” you ask softly, and he nods.<br/>
“The ones I know, yes.”<br/>
“How did you learn the words that you know?”<br/>
“Books,” he says quietly, “I’m only allowed to have the ones that the Supreme Leader writes. Do other people write books?”<br/>
You nod, smiling.<br/>
“Lots of people, about lots of things.”<br/>
“What kinds of things?”<br/>
You shrug.<br/>
“People make up stories about made-up worlds, made-up people and their lives. Sometimes, people write about their own lives, and real things, real people, real history. You can write about anything you’d like.”<br/>
Kylo looks confused, and he chews the inside of his cheek in thought.<br/>
“Why do people write about made-up things?”<br/>
“Entertainment. Distraction, to take yourself out of this world and into another for a little while.”<br/>
He nods in understanding, eyes travelling your face.<br/>
“Do you write books?”<br/>
You chuckle.<br/>
“No, but I’d like to, maybe.”<br/>
“What would you write about?”</p><p>And it’s a genuine question, genuine curiosity. Kylo has always loathed Snoke’s books, has always heard the creeping gravel of his voice behind every word. He hates reading Snoke’s thoughts, hates reading about the Force, about the prophecies, about <i>himself</i>.</p><p> You smile again, and Kylo’s eyes glint with something like admiration. </p><p>“I don’t know,” you sigh, “Maybe I’ll write about coming here. Maybe I’ll write about you.”<br/>
Kylo frowns, not catching the sentiment.<br/>
“I don’t think that would be very interesting.”<br/>
“Why not?”<br/>
Kylo looks down at your arms, then, clenching his jaw. He turns to sit up in bed, his eyes still not meeting yours.<br/>
“I’m assuming your life was far different to mine,” he says, “You’re from the outside, and you know all these words, you know about life out there. You don’t have scars on your legs or arms,” he gestures to the only part of your skin that he can see, “You won’t like it here.”</p><p>He moves his attention to the bathroom door, and he stares at it intently. You follow his gaze, sitting up slightly.<br/>
“Do you need to use it? The bathroom?”<br/>
Kylo looks at you.<br/>
“I don’t know if I can. I usually wait for the Knights to take me.”<br/>
“Of course you can, Kylo,” you lean forward slightly and he instinctively moves further away. He wishes your voice didn’t sound  so soft, so...pretty. It makes him nervous.<br/>
“This room belongs to the both of us right? Then so does the bathroom. Of course you can use it.”</p><p>He swallows thickly, then nods, moving off the bed and stalking towards it. Just as he reaches the door, you call his name, and he stops, turning to look at you inquisitively.  </p><p>“I probably won’t like it here, no. But that doesn’t mean I won’t like <i>you</i>.” </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>Kylo rests his forehead against the bathroom mirror. He’s not sure why it’s there, he doesn’t care to look at himself. Perhaps, he thinks, it’s for you. You’re so pretty, so soft, so...Kylo can’t find the words. But he thinks people like you should look at themselves. He likes looking at you, he realises. He so rarely lifts his head, so rarely meets the eyes of others, has seen so few faces - but you, he finds something like peace in your eyes, in the sound of your voice. He wishes he knew why. He wishes he knew why he was so drawn to you, wishes he understood the magnetism, the force of your pull. He wishes he could explain to himself why he was somehow still so afraid - afraid of something he doesn’t understand, something he can’t see. He wishes he could fathom how he had managed to speak more in his short time with you, than he thinks he <i>ever</i> has. </p><p>He’s only just met you, yet somehow, Kylo feels as though he’s known you for a thousand lifetimes already. Feels as though you’ve always existed inside of him, somewhere. Feels as though he was always searching for you when he looked to the stars, the moon. He wonders if that’s what you’re made of, if that’s why he feels this way. He wonders, naively, if you’re some sort of star. Some sort of ethereal force. Either way, you’ve enraptured him. And Force knows how. </p><p>You’re sitting up in bed when he emerges from the bathroom, back against the headboard, knees drawn to your chest. Goosebumps litter your arms and neck as you shiver slightly. You still have the sheets wrapped around you, craving what little warmth the silk gives. You wonder if Kylo is used to the cold, you wonder if he feels it at all. </p><p>“What time is it?” You ask suddenly as Kylo stands awkwardly at the foot of the bed. He makes a face, looking confused.<br/>
“Time to get up,” he states plainly.<br/>
“But what time? Eight? Nine? Ten?”<br/>
Kylo cocks his head to the side, his head shaking slightly.<br/>
“Why are you counting?”<br/>
You blink.<br/>
“Like, eight’o’clock? You don’t measure time?”<br/>
Kylo looks at you cautiously.<br/>
“Of course we do, but I don’t know what counting has to do with it.”<br/>
“How do you know what time it is, then?”<br/>
“The Supreme Leader measures it from where the sun is in the sky. He organises tasks around it. I know when it’s time for certain tasks because the Knights will come for me.”</p><p>He speaks so calmly, so plainly, like it’s normal. And you suppose, to him, it is. But your whole body aches for him, your throat constricts as your eyes begin to water, and oh <i>God</i>, you hadn’t wanted to cry. But you just can’t help it. This little thing, this little discussion over time, it has the reality of what you’re doing, of this case, hitting you all at once. You feel yourself begin to shake, and your chest feels as though something has clawed right through it. </p><p>Kylo looks almost panicked when you cry, when the tears begin to roll freely down your cheeks. He takes a step backward, and he’s afraid, afraid he’s caused this, that he has disappointed you, that he’s hurt you. Because he knows what it’s like to sob and to cry and the pain that comes with it. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” you say quickly. “I didn’t mean to cry, it’s not your fault.”<br/>
Kylo relaxes his shoulders slightly, but doesn’t move any closer. He doesn’t know what to do.  He doesn’t know how to <i>help</i>. You both stay in silence for several minutes, the only sound your quiet sniffles, when he finally breaks it.<br/>
“What is it?” he asks eventually. </p><p>But you can’t tell him, not yet. No, not until you’ve been here long enough to find a way out, not until you’re secure in your escape, in your rescue, in his rescue. Not until he trusts you. Because you need him to trust you. You need him to <i>believe</i> you. But it’s too soon, now. Too soon, because he still values Snoke. Still believes that this is his place. Still believes in this purpose. </p><p>You shake your head. You decide that you’re not going to lie to him, not fully. You’ll hide what you need to, but you’ll tell him the half truths that have you so emotional, that have you aching for him. </p><p>“It’s just…” you inhale deeply, “Things are different here, different than what I’m used to. And it makes me sad, sad about what they put you through.”<br/>
Kylo’s eyes are trained on you, following every flinch, every minuscule movement you make as you compose yourself, still shivering slightly with the cold. His eyes finally met yours, then, and he exhaled.<br/>
“My life shouldn’t make you upset,” he murmured, “I don’t want that.”<br/>
And he doesn’t. He wants you to laugh, to smile, to radiate that energy he’s so effortlessly drawn to. And he hopes, prays to the Maker that maybe his life won’t be so painful anymore. That maybe, if he allows himself to, he’ll find something in your presence. Something better. Something…nice.<br/>
You nodded, appreciating his empathy - or at least, his attempt at articulating it. Sniffling, you shift slightly, and Kylo notices how you hug the sheets to your chest.<br/>
“You’re cold,” he states. You chuckle, nodding.<br/>
“Yeah, this whole place is cold.”</p><p>Kylo looks around the room for a moment, wanting to help, but not knowing how to keep you warm. He opens his mouth to speak, to ask what he can do, but his efforts are interrupted by the bolts turning and the heavy wooden door swinging open. </p><p>“Get dressed,” Trudgen grunted as he appeared behind Kylo. “You’re expected in front of The Supreme Leader.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">come say hi on tumblr!</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter Nine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>And you <i>hate</i> his subservience, you hate the <i>respect</i> Kylo gives him. It makes your stomach churn when you think of it, of how Kylo doesn’t know the half of what Snoke has put him through, because he simply doesn’t understand. Can’t grasp how dire his conditions really are, can’t really wrap his head around the thought of living any other way.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There's so much I want to explore in this story, and I'm trying my best not to let the chapters get too long, so apologies for this one being a little on the longer side.<br/><a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">Come chat with me on tumblr if you'd like.</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two Knights drag you roughly down the hallway, their grip on your biceps tight enough to bruise. You can’t see their faces - they wear hoods that conceal the top half of their features, the rest of their bodies clad in black robes and leather. You wince, writhing in their grip as you struggle with them, kicking your legs out and around in a feeble attempt to free yourself. It doesn’t go unnoticed by you, though, that Kylo isn’t struggling. He allows himself to be pulled along, his footsteps falling into the same rhythm as the Knight’s who haul him along by the crooks of his elbows. He keeps his head bowed, eyes trained on the floor, and you think that his muscles appear almost limp, in their hold. His expression remains unreadable, even as the Knights harshly tug you both around a sudden corner. They grip you tighter, then, and you cry out, attempting to wrench your arms out of their grip. You arch your back, attempting to flip your body and wriggle out of their grip, but their hold only tightens as they grunt with the effort of keeping you captive. You cry out to Kylo, calling his name, wishing he’d tell them to stop, to let go of you. Because it hurts, it does, you can feel the bruises beginning to blossom on your skin already. But Kylo, he says nothing. He remains silent, not even lifting his gaze from the floor. His jaw clenches as he winces at the sound of your struggle, but he doesn’t dare look, doesn’t dare lift his head.<br/>
He knows better than that.</p>
<p>He breathes out harshly through his nose, his body tensing up as you reach the end of the corridor. The weighty wooden doors are pushed open, and you’re yanked away from the brightly lit corridors, pushed into the candlelit darkness of Snoke’s throne room. You’re forcefully deposited onto the red carpeted floor, and you quickly catch yourself with your forearms. Kylo drops to his knees, and you look at him, then. He’s looking at you, a sense of urgency in his eyes as he gestures to you to do the same, to get on your knees.<br/>
So, you do. </p>
<p>“I assume you know why you’re here.”</p>
<p>Your head snaps up, and you see him, then. Sitting on his throne - large and mahogany with carvings on the back and sides that you can’t quite make out. His fingernails tap against the armrest in impatience, awaiting an answer for a question you don’t understand.</p>
<p>“Supreme Leader,” Kylo begins, bowing his head, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I do know.”</p>
<p>And you <i>hate</i> his subservience, you hate the <i>respect</i> Kylo gives him. It makes your stomach churn when you think of it, of how Kylo doesn’t know the half of what Snoke has put him through, because he simply doesn’t understand. Can’t grasp how dire his conditions really are, can’t really wrap his head around the thought of living any other way. </p>
<p>Snoke hums, getting up from his throne and stalking toward you. </p>
<p>“I didn’t bring her here for nothing, Ren,” Snoke grunts. “There’s a purpose to this.”<br/>
Kylo says nothing, he simply looks to the floor, his jaw moving in a manner that makes you realise that he grinds his teeth.<br/>
Snoke looks to you, then.<br/>
“But you know that, don’t you?”<br/>
“Know what?” your throat is dry, and your words come out gravelly.<br/>
Snoke smirks, then turns to Kylo, who only looks confused. Worried, even. He’s afraid, scared that his thoughts, his fears of this being a game, a trap, have come to fruition. Because if he doesn’t understand this, doesn’t understand what he’s supposed to do with you, then how could you? </p>
<p>“She’s always been drawn to you, son,” Snoke almost grinned as he spoke, and the sight made you wince. “Like I said, the Force has decided your fates. The <i>Force</i> has bonded you, brought you together - you’ve been destined for each other all your lives.”</p>
<p>You blink, half in horror at the fact that it truly sounds as though Snoke believes this, that he genuinely has faith in your connection - if being forced to share a bed can be called as much. Your eyes shift to Kylo, who looks less horrified and more puzzled. His brows have furrowed together and you can almost see the cogs turning in his mind as he attempts to decipher Snoke’s words. Before Kylo can speak, though, Snoke turns and creeps back toward his throne.</p>
<p>“There will be a ceremony at the end of the week,” he says proudly, turning to face you as he sits back down. “Your marriage will be solidified, then. But for now,” he sighs deeply, gesturing to one of his Guards. You notice that he doesn’t make use of Kylo’s Knights, and has his own guards instead, all dressed in long red robes. “I have some matters to address with both of you. Separately.”</p>
<p>You’re hauled up from the floor before you have time to panic, or even speak. You whine slightly in pain as you’re dragged backward, out of the throne room and further into darkness. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Kylo doesn’t dare watch as you’re wrenched away, dragged by your arms into the holding cell. He remains on his knees, head bowed as Snoke observes him silently. He doesn’t quite know why he’s here, or what he should say - if he should say anything at all. Snoke clicks his tongue, snarling as he regards Kylo’s submission. It satisfies him, and Kylo knows this - it grates his very core, how much Snoke basks in his obedience. And oh, how he’d love nothing more than to lurch forward, gauge Snoke’s eyes out, claw his windpipe right out of his throat. He could, Kylo thinks. He’s sure of it. But he knows better. Knows the guards would shoot him down before he even has the chance to reach the throne. </p>
<p>“You’re drawn to her, aren’t you, son?” Snoke sneers, and Kylo’s jaw works with anxiety as he lifts his gaze to meet Snoke’s. He doesn’t want to let Snoke see this new weakness of his, can’t allow him to be privy to yet another flaw in his design. Force knows, he has enough of them already.<br/>
“It’s alright, son,” Snoke says calmly, leaning forward in his seat. “I already know that you are. Do you know why?”<br/>
Kylo shakes his head solemnly.<br/>
“It’s a prophecy. It’s part of your destiny.”<br/>
“I don’t understand.”<br/>
Snoke sighs, and Kylo knows that he grows frustrated with him, irritated by his lack of understanding, his inability to grasp certain concepts. Kylo knows he could, though, knows he <i>could</i> understand if Snoke gave him the time to. But he rarely does. </p>
<p>“Tell me, son,” Snoke leans back in his seat, fingernails tapping against the armrest again. “Tell me how she makes you feel.”</p>
<p>Kylo is silent, then. He doesn’t want to say, doesn’t want to let Snoke have access to this rare sliver of safety, this tiny piece of tranquility that he’s carved out inside your time together. Though he doesn’t understand it, can’t fathom how you’ve managed to create such a hold, such a grip on him in the short time that he’s known you - he does know that he feels it. Feels this pure serenity when you’re near, as though your own soul has reached out to console his. And he’ll treasure it as long as he has it, this peace, this calmness. </p>
<p>Sensing Kylo’s defiance, Snoke curls his fingers into his palm, baring his yellowing teeth.<br/>
“I’m warning you, Ren, to remember your place, or I’ll show it to you.”</p>
<p>Kylo’s eyes screw shut for a moment and he considers challenging Snoke’s words. His place. If the prophecies that have been so heavily beaten into his skull are to be believed, his place is far beyond Snoke’s reach. If Kylo Ren is the chosen one, if his destiny is to succeed Snoke and become Emperor, then that gives him power. Power that Snoke does not have.<br/>
But he doesn’t.<br/>
He relents, as he always does. </p>
<p>“She makes me feel…” Kylo trails off. He can’t find the words. “Light.”<br/>
“Light?”<br/>
“Like…” Kylo suppresses a sigh, frustrated at his own inability to articulate how he feels. He swallows, inhaling deeply. “Like a star. Like I’m pulled to her,” he mumbles, almost ashamed. “I don’t know why.”</p>
<p>Snoke is silent for only a beat before his ageing features crack into a sickening grimace that Kylo can only assume is <i>supposed</i> to be a smile.<br/>
“Good.”</p>
<p>Kylo blinks.<br/>
<i>No, this can’t be right</i>, he thinks. He’s been taught, all this time, that weakness - particularly his weaknesses - were sinful, punishable. They should be destroyed, snuffed out.<br/>
“Supreme Leader,” Kylo murmurs, unsure he should be asking such questions. “I don’t understand. This isn’t what I’ve been taught.”<br/>
Snoke gets up from his throne, approaching Kylo as he remains on his knees before him.<br/>
“Wasn’t it? Do you remember what I told you about love?”<br/>
“Yes, but, I don’t-”<br/>
“Understand the feeling, yes, I know,” Snoke almost rolls his eyes. “But you will. Like I told you before, son, Love is not a weakness. It’s your greatest strength, your most powerful ally in the dark side of the Force,” he gestures to Kylo to rise to his feet, and so he does. “Now, return to your chambers. I’ll have her back to you shortly.” </p>
<p>The Knights are already approaching from the door, and Kylo turns to face them. Just as he does, he turns his head to address Snoke.</p>
<p>“Will you hurt her?”</p>
<p>Snoke regards him, taken aback by Kylo’s bluntness, his bravery to even ask such a question. But he gives no sign of anger, no sign of a beating or a punishment. Instead, he simply turns to stalk back toward his throne, speaking over his shoulder as he goes. </p>
<p>“Not if she behaves.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>You’re pulled from what you can only assume is a closet just as the throne room doors shut, catching only a glimpse of Kylo as he’s escorted out. You hadn’t heard their conversation, all you could hear in the darkness was the sound of your own breathing, your own heart hammering in your chest.<br/>
Your knees hit the ground, then, as the guards shove you down by your shoulders, and you almost shriek in pain as their fingertips dig so deeply into your skin, you’re sure you’ll be left with swollen, painful fingerprints littering your collarbones. </p>
<p>“Now,” Snoke remarks, “I think we have plenty to talk about, don’t you?”</p>
<p>You resisted the urge to spit at his feet, to scream and shout and demand your release. You know, though, that none of that will get you far. If anything, it will only make your situation worse. So you stay there, staring up at him, biting your tongue.<br/>
“You’d do well to stop pretending that the cat’s got your tongue,” he spat, crossing his legs as he did. He said your name, then. But not <i>your</i> name. Your fake name, your stupid cult-given name that makes your skin crawl.<br/>
“Stop calling me that,” you hiss. “That’s not my name.”<br/>
“Have I not taught you what happens when you act brave with me, girl?” he snarled, hands curling into fists where they lay against the armrest. You chew the inside of your cheek in irritation, and though you make a show of it - your annoyance, your anger - your limbs still tremble in fear, your stomach doing flips that have you nauseous.<br/>
“That’s what I thought,” he mutters, leaning back in his seat. “We have much to discuss.”<br/>
You lift your head, looking up at him expectantly, clasping your shaking hands together in your lap. </p>
<p>“Do you think it a coincidence, how I found you just as you sought me?”<br/>
You swallow harshly, shaking your head.<br/>
“I assumed you’d be well clued in,” you chided. “You seem like the type.”<br/>
Snoke chuckles darkly.<br/>
“Unfortunately, you put too much faith in me,” he says, his features twisted into a wicked grin. “All that I know, all the knowledge I <i>do</i> have, comes from the Force.”<br/>
“The Force,” you repeat, your tone blunt and plain.<br/>
Snoke nods his head.<br/>
“It shows me things, what it wants me to see. And all your life, it’s wanted me to see <i>you</i>.”</p>
<p>You look at him incredulously, and you think, then, that you’ve gotten yourself into something far more intricate than you’d anticipated. You’d been positive that Snoke was just a conniving, rotten, scam artist. You’d never expected him to <i>believe</i> the trife he pushes so belligerently onto his followers. But now, it has you thinking that you could easily be dealing with a large scale case of folie et deux. That Snoke had successfully allowed his own delusions to take a hold of so many others, and the thought instills a heavy feeling of dread in the very pit of your stomach. You’d known, the second you got into that car, that you’d bitten off more than you could chew. But you’d started this, you’d gotten yourself into this mess. You’d get yourself - <i>and</i> Ben - out of it. You couldn’t - <i>wouldn’t</i> - let this mission fail. </p>
<p>“Me?”<br/>
“You, yes,” he sighs. “The Force decided long ago that your destiny is at Ren’s side. And as you can tell, I had little to do with making that happen. All I had to do was give you a ride.”<br/>
You shake your head, unsure whether or not to play along. You chew your lip, your fingers tensing. Snoke scoffs.<br/>
“Let me guess,” he mutters. “You don’t understand? I hear that a lot around these parts.”</p>
<p>Your nostrils flare in anger, your ears and cheeks burning as you swallow harshly. It has you livid, the way he pokes fun at Kylo, because of course he doesn’t understand. He’s never been given the chance to. </p>
<p>“You’re a brute,” you hiss. “And you’re evil. You took him from his parents, his <i>life</i>, and you brainwashed him. It’s because of <i>you</i> that he doesn’t have a fucking clue about the world and yet you have the audacity to mock him for it.”</p>
<p>You’re shocked at your own bravery, your palms stick together with sweat and your shoulders tense. Snoke isn’t phased by your outburst, though, no. Snoke almost laughs.<br/>
“Well, I assume you’ve already begun your lessons, hm?” he gets up, then, approaching you slowly. “You’re already teaching him.”<br/>
“I shouldn’t have to.”<br/>
“No, but you <i>want</i> to, don’t you?” he asks, coming to a halt only a foot away from you. “And you don’t know why. You can’t figure out what has you so enamoured with him, can you? Or why you were so obsessed with him, long before you ever met him.”<br/>
“It was my <i>job</i>.”<br/>
“I suggest you drop the act,” Snoke bared his teeth as he spoke. “We both know where that’ll lead you,” he drops down to crouch before you, and being in such close proximity to the sour of his breath makes your nose crinkle in disgust. “You’re drawn to him. You know it, I know it. But you’re burying it, won’t allow yourself to feel it, because it’s wrong, isn't it? <i>Unprofessional</i>. But he’s drawn to you, too, because this, your coming together - it’s fate. You’re only hurting yourself, and him, by pushing your bond away.”<br/>
“What bond?” you hiss. “I don’t know him.”</p>
<p>Before you even realise what’s happening, Snoke has your throat held firmly between his bony fingers. He squeezes tightly, cutting off your airflow inch by inch as your face heats up, tears spilling down your cheeks.<br/>
“I told you, girl, to drop the act.” </p>
<p>You gasp frantically for air, your hands flying up to grip at his forearms. His skin feels crepey, like paper beneath your fingertips and you scratch it, claw it, desperate for air. He squeezes tighter for only a moment, before releasing you, throwing you to the floor as he does. Your throat burns and your lungs ache as you swallow air, clutching at your throat. The skin is already tender to touch, and you know you’ll be left with a horrid mark, a ghastly reminder of what has just happened to you. You scramble back onto your knees, breathing roughly through your nose. </p>
<p>“Like I said,” Snoke snarls, “He’s very drawn to you. You’d do well not to hurt him, don’t you think?”<br/>
“Why?” you ask, finally realising that Snoke won’t kill you. No, he <i>needs</i> you. So you’ll withstand the pain, the torture, if it means you get your questions answered. If it means you understand what this - all of this - means. Because you have to, have to know what it is that these people are here for, what they left their lives behind for. “Because I’ll ruin your plan for him if I do?”<br/>
“The plan, girl, isn’t mine. I didn’t create his destiny, I merely ensure he stays on the path to it.”<br/>
You roll your eyes, and Snoke leans down to your level. <br/>
“Listen to me,” he seethes, “The boy has finally found a solace, and you wish to yank it from him? You want to put him through the hell of leaving all he’s ever known? Do you really think it wise, do you really think he’d flourish? Because, sweetheart, I think we both know that he won’t,” his eyes bore into yours with such a commanding force that you almost forget to breathe. “He belongs here. We both know that, don’t we? And now that he has you, I think he’ll be <i>very</i> happy here.”<br/>
You inhale shakily as Snoke stands back to his full height.</p>
<p>“Of <i>course</i> he’s drawn to me,” you retort, ever defiant when you shouldn’t be. “You’ve cut him off from the world, he barely sees anyone else and I’m probably the only person who’s had a kind word to say to him in God knows how long.”<br/>
“You sound more like you’re trying to convince yourself than me,” he chuckles, gesturing to his guards once more. The door swings open, and you can hear the heavy thud of the Knight’s boots as they approach you. “But rest assured, I’ll make your life very, <i>very</i> difficult, sweetheart, if you start causing trouble.” </p>
<p>The Knights quickly grab you from behind, and you thrash - you’re not ready yet, you’re not <i>finished</i> yet.<br/>
“Wait!” you yell, kicking your legs. “Where’s Kes Dameron? And his wife? She was pregnant when you took her, you know.”<br/>
Snoke takes a step back, evidently startled by your question. He chuckles in surprise, folding his arms across his rickety chest.<br/>
“<i>Force,</i>” he exclaims as he laughs. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. I’ll save you the trouble, sweetheart, they’re long dead.”</p>
<p>And your heart drops, it <i>breaks</i>. You’d been hoping, praying that they’d be alive. Because you know, you know for absolute certain that they knew of the outside world. They could have helped break through Kylo’s attachment to Snoke, they could have helped <i>him</i>. You could have helped <i>them</i>.</p>
<p>You shout again, shout for Snoke to listen to you, to wait, but the Knights quickly turn you, hurling you toward the door. As you stumble forward, their gloved hands crushing your forearms, you can’t help but notice words, letters, etched into the walls. You can’t quite make them out, the candlelight limiting your view. You realise, then, as your body moves forward and the lighting shifts, that the words span the entire length and breadth of the wall. But you’re given no time to read them, to make them out. You’re pushed quickly into the brightly lit hallway, dragged back to the confines of your bedroom.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">Come say hello on tumblr, if you'd like!</a> I love to hear from you.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter Ten</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Lil bit of angst? (as if that isn't all this story is)<br/>Also, a shorter chapter this time around.<br/><b>Trigger warning, this chapter contains a panic attack.</b></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This time, when the Knights fling you through the bedroom door, you catch yourself, stumbling only slightly over the threshold. You stand up straight, breathing roughly through your nose as your eyes adjust to the darkness. He’s sitting at the desk that’s tucked into the far corner of the room, and Kylo turns in his chair to face you. His eyes rake over your face, settling on your neck, and your hand flies up instinctively to paw at it. You can already feel the bruises blossoming, the welts that formed on your skin are already swelling slightly. You’re still trembling, still reeling from the shock, the terror. And he notices. Of course he does. </p>
<p>“You didn’t behave,” Kylo states bluntly, and you step back, stunned.<br/>
“Excuse me?”<br/>
“Snoke,” he starts, turning around fully in his seat, “He said he wouldn’t hurt you if you behaved.”</p>
<p>You scoff, shaking your head as you move to sit on the foot of the bed. Your rub at your eyes, groaning slightly. You’re too drained, too exhausted, too hurt to be pedantic with Kylo over your behaviour. All you can think about - all you <i>want</i> to think about - is home. Your bed, your comfort, your safe haven where nothing and no one could hurt you. Because nothing could ever reach you while underneath the safety of your blankets and pillows, nothing could breach your peace, your serenity. But here, here you’re anyone’s for the taking. Here, you’re vulnerable, petrified. You’re in danger.<br/>
You’d told Wedge and Rose to give you some time, to give you a little while to find Ben, to gather evidence to flesh out your story. But now, you’re beginning to question the merit of your request. Of your ability to see this through. Though, you suppose, it doesn’t matter either way. Unless you find a way out of this god-forsaken fortress by yourself, you have no choice but to sit here, to wait, until they send help. Until they alert the authorities. And of course, you’re worried that they won’t interfere. Snoke, you remember, had - and still may have - some footing in the police force, what with how much he’s gotten away with, how little Ben Organa-Solo’s case was investigated. How the disappearance of the Dameron’s was brushed under the rug. It’s occurring to you, now, that you may be stuck here. That you may have made a mistake. Because you don’t want to be here. You don’t <i>want</i> to be stuck here. And you have no idea, now that you really think of it, how you’re going to get <i>out</i>. </p>
<p>Kylo watches as you sit, silent, barely moving. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say, or if he should say anything at all. It angers him, though - infuriates him - that Snoke has hurt you, that he’s caused your skin to swell and sting. But he doesn’t know how to help, how to alleviate your pain, how to stop you from hurting. He swallows, turning back to his desk. He knows it, knows well that he could never be whatever it is that you need, that whatever it is that he’s <i>supposed</i> to be for you is far beyond his capability, his understanding. He can’t decide, though, what agitates him more - that he will have, once again, failed Snoke, failed at being what is expected of him, or that he will have disappointed <i>you</i>. Kylo, of course, doesn’t know how you got here, doesn’t know that you never expected anything from him in the first place. To him, though, you are owed his efforts. Because you’re kind. Because you teach. Because you’re the first person to <i>see</i> him - <i>really</i> see him. And though he can’t articulate it, though he can’t express it in words - or even actions, he is grateful. Eternally so. He thinks, as he swirls his pen across the stiff paper laid on his desk, that you may be the first thing he has ever felt such gratitude for. He watches the ink as it dries, as it sinks deep into the miniscule crevices of the parchment, and he understands, then, what it is that he’s so deeply afraid of. </p>
<p>“What were those words?”<br/>
Your sudden question startles Kylo, and he jumps slightly in his chair.<br/>
“What words?”<br/>
“On the wall, in the throne room. There’s words carved into the wall. What do they say?”</p>
<p>And he can feel it, can feel the blood as it drains from his face. Kylo doesn’t lie, not unless he finds it necessary, not unless it’s of use to him in a strategic manner. But now, he feels the urge to, the urge to steer you away from the truth. From his truth.<br/>
He wants to, but he doesn’t.<br/>
You’d find out, sooner or later. He’d only be delaying the consequences. </p>
<p>“They’re not words,” he mumbles, turning back to his paper. “They’re names.”<br/>
“Of who?” You scoot closer to the edge of the bed, your interest peaked.<br/>
Kylo says nothing for a moment, continuing with his work, gliding his pen across the paper as though he hadn’t heard you. But you don’t push him, you don’t rush him. You need him to open up on his own, you need him to <i>want</i> to.<br/>
“I don’t know how much he’s told you,” he says eventually, laying his pen down gingerly. He doesn’t turn to face you, though. He remains in his seat, stock still, eyes glued to the wall in front of him. “But when The Supreme Leader leaves, when he goes on missions, I take the throne.”<br/>
And though he can’t see you, you nod anyway, not wanting to interject, not wanting to speak over him. </p>
<p>“I have to do things,” he swallows thickly, and you can see how his arms shake, how he clenches his fists. “Things that are expected of me.”<br/>
And he stops, then. As though it’s all he can stomach to say. <i>Perhaps</i>, you think, <i>it is</i>.<br/>
“What kinds of things?”<br/>
He doesn’t answer you straight away, though his body flinches somewhat at the question. </p>
<p>“I’ve killed a lot of people,” he says quietly. “People I don’t think I should have killed. People I…” he trails off for a moment, exhaling roughly through his nose. “People I didn’t want to kill. People that didn’t want to die.”</p>
<p>And oh, God, your heart - it drops right through your stomach, shattering into a thousand tiny shards that scrape and scratch at your insides. You feel the bile rising up into your throat, and you’re not sure what terrifies you more - that you’ve slept next to a <i>murderer</i>, or that you’ve risked your life to bring one home. You’re breathing is erratic, coming in desperate gulps as your heart pounds against your chest, and <i>oh god, oh god,</i> you know this feeling, you know this feeling far too well. You push yourself backward on the bed, clutching at your chest, and Kylo spins around. He gets up from his seat, quickly pushing it to the side. He’s afraid, afraid to approach you, afraid of what he’s done. Because no, you can’t, you can’t push him away, not now. And though he knows that this is his fault, he doesn’t quite understand what it is that’s happening to your body. Doesn’t understand why you’re shaking so violently, doesn’t understand why your breath comes in heaves, why you’re rocking back and forth. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” he says, almost frantic. “What’s happening to you?” </p>
<p>You hear him, of course you do, but you can’t answer, can’t find the words, can’t find your voice. It feels as though your head is spinning, as though <i>everything</i> about this dire situation you’ve landed yourself in has hit you all at once. You’d thought, when you arrived, that you had this in common with Kylo - two prisoners, two lost souls at the mercy of Snoke and his delusions. But no, no. He’s just like him. He’s just like Snoke. <i>He’s just like Snoke. He’s just like Snoke. He’s just like-</i></p>
<p>He shouts your name, and you realise, as your eyes focus on him, as you blink away your tears - he’s closer to you than he’s ever been, on his knees right before you. He’s frenzied, eyes wide and glassy, his face flushed as words come tumbling out of his mouth too fast for you to properly understand. And though he hasn’t reached for you, though he hasn’t touched you, or moved his hands from where they sit, clenched against his thighs, you hiss at him all the same.<br/>
“Don’t touch me, don’t fucking touch me.”<br/>
“I-I won’t, I won’t,” he says hurriedly. “Tell me how to help you, I don’t understand what’s happening to you.” </p>
<p>You groan as a wave of nausea hits you, and your tears flow freely, heavy choked sobs erupting from your chest. It scares him, it does. He’s never seen anything like this, has never seen anyone so violently upset. Anyone but him. But he never knew how to help himself. Never knew what to do, never had anyone to tell him <i>what</i> to do. So he just cried, thrashed, clawed at his own skin until he tired himself out, until he found sleep somewhere between the sobs and the screams. </p>
<p>You kick at him as you push yourself up the bed, and he quickly dodges your blows. He scoots backward, his own tears beginning to form as he realises what he’s done. You’re afraid, afraid of <i>him</i>. He watches you as you curl up against the headboard, bringing your knees up right under your chin as you whimper into the pillows. </p>
<p>“Please,” he breathes, so quietly that you barely heard him over your cries. He’s approaching you, taking tentative steps until he’s only a foot away from your trembling form. “Please d-don’t be afraid of me.” </p>
<p>And <i>sometimes</i>, on his good days, Kylo enjoys inciting fear. He enjoys the terror he feels radiating from those unfortunate enough to be caught as code breakers, as they’re dragged toward his throne. He enjoys hearing them cry out, beg for their lives. But not you. No. He <i>needs</i> you. Of course he does. Of course he needs the only person who has ever shown him tenderness, who has ever cared to know what happens inside of <i>his</i> mind. He’s lived so long without it, without you - he already knows he can’t do without any longer. </p>
<p>You only sob harder at his words, and his own breathing quickens as he attempts to quell his own panic. He moves cautiously toward you, sitting down slowly on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and he only half realises that he’s acting out of pure instinct. Out of sheer desperation. You’ve made it clear that you don’t want him near you, yet still, he approaches, still, he <i>tries</i>.</p>
<p>“I won’t ever hurt you,” he whispers, and he’s not sure if you can even hear him. “I promise, I won’t hurt you, and I-I’m s-sorry. I let Snoke hurt you. I won’t, not anymore.” </p>
<p>You’re shaking your head as he speaks, and part of you wants him to just shut <i>up</i>, to just go away - but part of you needs this, needs to hear from him that you’re safe, that you won’t be harmed. That you don’t have to sleep in fear. </p>
<p>“You don’t deserve it,” he continues, turning his head to look at you. “You’re too kind, too...good,” Kylo sighs, as words fail him once again. He shifts, moving his body to face yours. The way he’s looking at you makes you feel strange. It makes you feel tired, it makes your limbs feel heavy, makes your thoughts become fuzzy and unclear. You try to tell him, try to ask him why you feel this way, but no words come. Your eyes blink once, twice, three times until they flutter shut, and only then does Kylo move. </p>
<p>“Too pretty,” he mumbles finally, as he pulls the blanket out from under you, laying it delicately over you as you drift into sleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">come talk to me on tumblr!</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter Eleven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Your tone is commanding, and it unnerves him, makes his throat ache and his fists clench. You’re angry, angry with him and he feels it, feels the burn of it right down to his core. He doesn’t know how to fix it, how to make you smile again, how to make you laugh again. Because he liked that, when you laughed. He liked the sound, liked how your joy spread into his bones, his blood.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm sorry this chapter is a little (a lot) shorter, but I hope you enjoy it all the same.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You wake with a start, immediately jumping upwards and pushing yourself back against the headboard. You hate this, hate having no concept of time, hate that you have no windows to even venture a guess as to whether it’s day or night. Hate feeling confused, disorientated, like you do now. </p>
<p>You wake with a start, immediately jumping upwards and pushing yourself back against the headboard. You hate this, hate having no concept of time, hate that you have no windows to even guess whether it’s day or night. Hate feeling confused, disorientated, like you do now. </p>
<p>“You’re awake,” Kylo states, almost as though he’s <i>telling</i> you. The sudden sound of his voice startles you, and your heart thrums in your chest from the fright. You huff, chewing at the inside of your cheek as the post-dream fog begins to lift from your mind. You shake your head, screwing your eyes shut as you desperately try to recall a memory that isn’t there, your minds-eye landing only on an image of Kylo - so close, too close to you, his brows furrowed in panic as you cried. </p>
<p>
  <i>I don’t remember falling asleep.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What did you do?” your voice is hoarse from sleep, and you clear your throat as you pull your knees toward your chest. <br/>“What?” <br/>He’s sitting at his desk again, only now turning to face you. <br/>“I wasn’t tired. I…” you trail off for a minute, suddenly aware of how you sound, of what you’re accusing him of. How could he have possibly done anything to you? He never touched you, he couldn’t have drugged you. “I don’t know how I fell asleep.”<br/>“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, laying his pen down. He avoids your eyes, his focus falling to your hands where they clutch at your shins, your nails forming little crescent moons on your skin. “I didn’t know how else to help you. I didn’t know how to make it stop.”<br/>Your brows shoot upward and you feel your heart skip a beat, your stomach flip. You hate it, that feeling, you always have. The way it feels like your heart falls right through your gut, and back up again. <br/>“Make what stop? What did you <i>do</i>?”<br/>Kylo looks confused, and he turns further in his chair to fully face you. <br/>“Your mind, it was…” he trails off, unable to find the word he’s looking for. He sighs, settling for the only word he knows will fit. “Fast. You were hurting, you were afraid. So I put you to sleep.”</p>
<p>Your mouth opens, moves as you try to speak, but no words come. You don’t understand what he means, what he’s insinuating. Your head shakes in confusion. You take another breath.<br/>“W-what? H-how?” Your body trembles at the thought of what he could have done, of how he could have drugged you somehow, like Snoke had, when you felt your body betray you in the back of his town car. “H-how could you possibly have done that?”<br/>Kylo chews the inside of his cheek, hesitating momentarily. <br/>“I don’t know how to explain it,” he says quietly, still avoiding your gaze. “It’s just...something that I can do.”<br/>“Put people to sleep?”<br/>He makes a face.<br/>“No. I didn’t even know I could do that before you arrived here.”<br/>Your eyes narrow, almost somewhat offended upon realising that he’d done this before. <br/>“Did you do that last night?” you ask, your tone incredulous. <br/>“You were worried a-and you were <i>scared</i>,” he insists, immediately defensive. “Of being here. So I tried it, I thought...I-I thought I was helping.” </p>
<p>It strikes you, then - though your mind has seemingly skipped over the logistics of Ben’s claim - that he doesn’t realise what he’s done wrong. You realise that he apologises as a reaction to the tone of your voice, never once considering what it is that he has actually done to warrant it.  Kylo doesn’t know how to touch people, doesn’t know how to comfort them, or talk to them. You can see it, in a twisted way, that his way of helping you came from a place of genuine empathy, of benevolence - though its execution came from a place of distance, of fear. It reminds you, somewhat, of how you’d cry as a child when bedtime came too quickly, or when you’d been purposely bold and were somehow shocked (and furious) that you’d gotten in trouble for it. You’d scream, sob until your throat was sore, until your eyes were dry and red. You’d fall asleep eventually, after wearing yourself out. When you’d awake the next morning, tiny limbs sprawled out over colourful cotton sheets, you’d have all but forgotten your stormy tantrum from the night before. You wonder if Ben had those same tantrums, the kind every child has when someone takes their favourite toy, or reprimands them. <i>No</i>, you think. <i>No, Ben suffered.</i> But when he suffered, he slept. And when he awoke, he felt better. And he had tried, the only way he knew how, to pass his only semblance of solace on to you when you needed it.</p>
<p>You clench your jaw, exhaling roughly from your nose. You don’t even try to wrap your head around the technicalities of it, of how exactly he’d done it. You’re desperately clinging to what little calm you have left, clawing vigorously at your grip on stability. You can see it, the cliffs edge, the precipice of your sanity, and you desperately scramble to keep it at a distance, to keep yourself on steady, solid ground. </p>
<p>“Well,” you breathe shakily, “don’t do it again.”<br/>He looks away, eyes fixing on the foot of the bed. He remains silent, almost brooding, like a soured teenager. You run your hands over your face in exasperation, your mind still not quite catching up with the reality of what you’re hearing. You settle further into the pillows, bringing your arms down to fold them across your chest. <br/>“How did you know I was scared? Last night, I mean.”<br/>Kylo shrugs slightly. <br/>“I don’t know how, I just do. I can feel what you feel.”<br/>“You can hear people’s thoughts?”<br/>He shakes his head.<br/>“Well, I can, but…” he grunts in frustration. “I don’t know how to describe it.” <br/><i>“Try.”</i></p>
<p>Your tone is commanding, and it unnerves him, makes his throat ache and his fists clench. You’re angry, angry with him and he <i>feels</i> it, feels the burn of it right down to his core. He doesn’t know how to fix it, how to make you smile again, how to make you laugh again. Because he liked that, when you laughed. He liked the sound, liked how your joy spread into his bones, his blood. </p>
<p>He swallows. <br/>“I <i>could</i>,” he starts, his eyes finally meeting yours. “When I was a boy, I could. I could...push myself into their minds. The Knights, mostly. I never really saw anyone else. But not Snoke’s. I couldn’t do that with him, but I tried. It was like...he built a wall, and I couldn’t get through. I think he taught The Knights how to build one too, so I haven’t tried it since,” he shifts in his chair. “But I didn’t do that with you. I don’t know what you’re thinking. But your...your feelings, I feel them like they’re mine. That...That hasn’t happened before. Usually, I can just...sense it, but it’s different with you. It’s like...you’re inside me.” <br/>You blink, unsure of what to say, of how to even respond to such a statement. When you don’t speak, Kylo continues. <br/>“And you’d know, I think,” he says. “If I tried to do that, if I tried to get into your head. It hurt them when I did it.”<br/>“How did it hurt them?”<br/>“I didn’t mean to, but they’d scream. They were in pain.” </p>
<p>You don’t want to question it, or ask him what he means. You don’t want to invalidate him, you don’t want to deal with the consequence of upsetting him. Because you’re <i>tired</i>, and no amount of twisted curiosity for a tortured man’s delusions will push you past your limit - you’ve decided that much.  </p>
<p>You bite your lip. <i>Perhaps</i>, you reckon, <i>humouring him will work best</i>. </p>
<p>“Okay,” You take a steady breath, relaxing your grip on your shins. “What else can you do?” <br/>“I can move things,” he mumbles, “But they took everything I could move away,” he nods to the bed, then gestures to the desk. “They nail things to the floor. I used to throw them, you know, with my hands. But when I learned that I didn’t have to touch them, they got scared.”</p>
<p>You tilt your head at him in confusion, and he picks up on your doubt, your disbelief. Because why would you believe him? Kylo knows well - Snoke has <i>ensured</i> that he does - that he is special. That no one else can do what he does, that no one else harnesses such power - or any power at all. He <i>knows</i> that this is why he is the Chosen One. He knows you don’t understand. The Knights didn’t, when he first attacked them. Hux didn’t, when he first brought a fork within millimeters of his left eye from the other end of the dining table. So why would you? </p>
<p>He twitches his fingers slightly, and his pen moves from the desk, levitating over his lap for only a moment before he curls his fingers, sending it back to the desk, just as the bedroom door thrashes open.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Surprise! The Force is real after all. I was toying with inferring as much earlier on in the story but it didn't quite fit. I wanted it to be as much of a shock to you as it is for your character/reader.  </p>
<p>
  <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">Come say hello on tumblr! I love to hear from you.</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter Twelve</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Kylo’s eyes flick to you as he recentres himself, and he catches how your eyes trail down his chest, his arms, his abdomen. He doesn’t understand it, though, doesn’t understand that you’re admiring him. Instead, he frets, internally agonising over his littering of scars and bruises. He wonders which one it is that you’re looking at, which one repulses you the most.<br/>They all repulse him.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Baby steps. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Just a quick reminder (I realised that I might have to re-clarify this when I wrote the word 'recentre') that I write in Irish/UK English. I promise, I <b>do</b> know how to spell, lol.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Get up,” Vicrul barks. “Time for your training.”<br/>
Kylo gets up swiftly, obidently, and Vicrul roughly grabs him by the arm. He turns to you expectantly, regarding you with contempt.<br/>
“What’re you still sitting there for? Get up.”<br/>
“Me?”<br/>
“There’s no one else in the room, is there?”<br/>
You can only see the lower half of the Knight’s features - his set jaw, his thin lips - but you can feel his hostility. It sends a cool surge of ice right down your spine.<br/>
You blink, frozen momentarily.<br/>
“Get <i>up</i>, I said!”<br/>
His gravelly shout makes you jump, and you quickly slide off the bed, flustered. Kylo inhales sharply through his nose, jaw clenching.<br/>
“Don’t shout at her,” he says, quietly though - timidly, almost. “She didn’t do anything.”<br/>
Vicrul turns to Kylo, incredulous at his command.<br/>
“I’m going to pretend that I didn’t hear that,” Vicrul hisses, squeezing Kylo’s arm tighter.<br/>
“I-I’m sorry,” you interject, realising that you’d fallen asleep in your day-robes. No need for you to change. “I didn’t know that I had something to train for.”<br/>
“You have everything to train for, if you’re to be the Empress,” Vicrul says bluntly, as though you should simply know what is expected of you. You approach him cautiously, and he steps forward, snatching your bicep with his free hand and hauling both of you out of the room. He tosses you forward, another set of gloved hands are on you now. You don’t know their names, you can’t tell them apart, what with how their hoods shield their identifying features, shrouding them in shadow. But Kylo knows that it is Trudgen who now tugs you along, and he watches, his head bowed, as you scramble to keep up with Trudgen’s long strides. </p>
<p>Your mind flicks back to Kylo’s pen as you walk, and your breath hitches, getting stuck in your throat. You feel sick, nausea churning through your stomach with the shock of it, of what you’d seen, because this can’t be real, can it? How could he possibly have done it, how could it have happened?  <i>Magic, is that what it is?</i><br/>
You chew your cheek as you replay the action in your mind - the fluid motion of his fingers, the way the pen reacted to his movement, the way it began to glide through the air so smoothly, so evenly.  As though Kylo were its master, a deity to which it responded immediately. It dawns on you, then, that perhaps it <i>is</i> real. That Snoke’s delusions aren’t delusions at all - that this, all of this, this compound, this cult, is an act of <i>worship</i>. Snoke truly believes that he’s found a <i>God</i> in Ben Organa-Solo, and is teaching him how to rule, training him to perfected compliance with his vision. </p>
<p>You shudder, gasping as you trip over your own boots. Kylo’s head lifts slightly as you stumble, eyes meeting yours for only a second before they flick back to the hard tile beneath his feet. You think, in your peripheral vision, that you’d seen his body jolt slightly in your direction, as though to instinctively reach out and catch you. But with the way Vicrul grips his arm, the way the Knight’s steps fall in tandem with his own, you can’t be sure. </p>
<p>You’re shoved roughly to the left, then, through a steel door and into a brightly lit space. You blink as Trudgen hauls you into the centre of the room, depositing you carelessly onto the training mats that cover the grime riddled tiles. He grumbles something inaudible as he retreats, disappearing back into the maze of hallways that snake through the building. Your neck cranes upward, and you bask in the light - the ceiling is adorned with two skylights, and it’s the first daylight you’ve seen in what feels like weeks.<br/>
Kylo stands idly behind you, his eyes flitting from you to the ceiling. He likes this, the way your eyes fall shut, the way the sunlight cascades across your face.<br/>
<i>Pretty.</i><br/>
He cocks his head to the side as he observes you, and your eyes fly open as you feel the weight of his gaze. </p>
<p>“Sorry,” you mumble, glancing back at him briefly. You’ve mistaken his adoration for confusion, and he can tell as much. You always seem to think that he’s confused. “It’s just nice to see the sun, you know?” </p>
<p>Kylo only hums softly in agreement before turning expectantly toward Vicrul, awaiting orders. It’s <i>always</i> Vicrul who oversees his training. Never Trudgen - he’s too impatient, too irritable. Never Ushar - he’s not attentive enough. Certainly, never Cardo - Kylo brawls with him the most, always has. Snoke had worried, once, that Cardo may try to kill his Chosen boy, but he’d brushed it off quickly enough. Kylo still worries about it, though. Still tenses at the sight of him, never fully turns his back to him. </p>
<p>Vicrul clears his throat.</p>
<p>“Supreme Leader Snoke hasn’t approved a training plan for you yet,” he states, nodding to you. “So for today, you watch,” he turns to Kylo then, jerking his head toward the back of the room. There's a rickety room divider haphazardly placed in the far corner, dark trousers slung over the top of it. “Change into your gear, I don’t have all day.”<br/>
Kylo nods, quickly disappearing from your sight. You curl in on yourself slightly, bringing your knees toward your chest.<br/>
“Should I just...sit?”<br/>
“I don’t care,” Vicrul grunts. “Sit, stand, whatever. Just stay out of the way.” </p>
<p>You scramble to your feet, moving away from the training mats to give them the space they need. You redeposit yourself against a wall, folding yourself almost in half to make yourself as small, as inconspicuous as possible. You lean your head back against the wall, and fix your gaze to the rectangles of sky above you. You choose to ignore Vicrul as he lays various weapons down on the mat - you’re not quite sure you even <i>want</i> to watch them train. Movement catches your attention, then, and you glance upward to see Kylo reappear to Vicrul’s right. Immediately, you avert your eyes, feeling your cheeks become hot with embarrassment. You’ve never seen him like this before, so bare. He’s changed into cotton trousers, but has forgone a shirt or robe to cover his torso. Your jaw clenches nervously, and you purposely direct your stare back to the ceiling. The sun is beginning to set now, and you realise that you hadn’t been asleep for very long. You’d hoped, naively, that you’d slept right through the afternoon and into the night - that you’d bypassed time, somehow. But no, it’s still...You blink, taken aback by your hesitance. <i>Wednesday? Thursday?</i> You’re not sure, your sense of time has already become warped. </p>
<p>You hear Vicrul make a noise, something that sounds like surprise. You look up again, watching shyly as Vicrul inspects Kylo’s stance.<br/>
“Your form is better today,” Vicrul grunts at Kylo, and you can tell that it’s a rare compliment, by the way Kylo bows his head hesitantly in appreciation. He’s holding something, wooden and long, like a training sword, crossed at the hilt.<br/>
“Thank you,” Kylo murmurs, but Vicrul waves a hand at him passively.<br/>
“Don’t thank me,” he mutters. “Just keep doing it.”</p>
<p>Kylo’s eyes flick to you as he recentres himself, and he catches how your eyes trail down his chest, his arms, his abdomen. He doesn’t understand it, though, doesn’t understand that you’re <i>admiring</i> him. Instead, he frets, internally agonising over his littering of scars and bruises. He wonders which one it is that you’re looking at, which one repulses you the most.<br/>
They <i>all</i> repulse him. </p>
<p>He turns back to Vicrul, and you sheepishly look downward, inspecting your hands as they fold in your lap. </p>
<p><i>He must think I’m such a creep</i>, you think, and you fold your arms tightly across your chest. You sit like that for some time, your eyes eventually falling shut. You shouldn’t feel safe enough to sleep here, in this hellish place, but you do - with no help from your apparent husband-to-be, this time. Your arms are still firmly wrapped around your torso, your head leaning back against the cold, exposed cement brick of the wall. Your sleep is dreamless, and though you can’t feel it in your slumber, your skin is cold and dotted with goosebumps. You only begin to stir when you feel a soft touch to your shoulder, nudging you gently awake. You can vaguely hear your name being said, over and over, until your eyes finally flutter open. </p>
<p>“Hm?” Your body shifts upward, and you sit up straight as your awareness returns to you. Kylo is crouching before you, back in his robes, gloves and all. His hand still hovering over your shoulder. It’s the first time he’s touched you, and your eyes immediately focus on where only the very tips of his fingers meet the rough fabric of your robes. He’s silent as you watch him, your eyes moving between his fingers and his eyes.<br/>
“I didn’t do that,” he affirms, and your brow furrows. “Put you to sleep, I mean.”<br/>
“Oh,” your voice is rough from sleep, and you swallow thickly. “I know.”</p>
<p>He withdraws his hand, then, and gets to his feet. His fingers twitch where they fall at his sides, as he considers whether or not to help you up. He’s trying, he really is - trying to show you that he’s not to be feared, that he won’t hurt you like Snoke did, that he doesn’t want you to be <i>miserable</i> here. He wants to show you - though he doesn’t know how - that he likes your laugh, your smile, your kindness. He wants you to understand how you make him feel. He fears, though, that perhaps that’s a lost cause. That even if he could, that even if he did learn how to express such things - you wouldn’t want to know, anyway. Why would you? </p>
<p>He bites down harshly on his cheek, and Vircul pulls open the door.<br/>
“Hurry up,” he orders, holding it open with his boot. “You’ve still got to go to the showers before dinner.”</p>
<p>You shift, planting your palms on the ground to push yourself upward, and Kylo steps forward then. You look up at him, and you open your mouth to speak, to ask him to step back so that you can move. But then you see it, see his gloved hand outstretched, only inches in front of your face. Your eyes flit back to his, and you can see it, the anxiety such a small gesture is bringing him.<br/>
You don’t see Kylo Ren then. And suddenly, you’re not annoyed, nor are you bitter, as you have been all day. You’re not sitting on the murky floor of a compound in the middle of God knows where. You’re back in your old office, sitting at your old desk, leafing through age-progressions of Ben Organa-Solo. You’re hoping, praying that he’s alive, that whatever he’s gone through hasn’t destroyed him, hasn’t broken his soul completely. You’re hoping you can bring him <i>home</i>.<br/>
And when you see him now, you think that maybe you can. Because right now, you can see <i>Ben.</i></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">Come say hello on tumblr, if you'd like!</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter Thirteen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“A hug is an embrace, where someone wraps themselves around you, their arms, because they love you, or like you,” your voice trembles as you speak, and you resist the tears that threaten to spill. “Has no one ever touched you like that?”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I know this update is really soon following the last one, but I just couldn't stop writing. Bit of a longer chapter, too.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You’re not used to touching people, are you?” </p>
<p>You’re back in the bedroom, and Kylo is sitting at his desk again. He seems to prefer it, prefers the distance it provides between you, from where you sit on the bed. He’s facing you, though, which is an improvement, you think. His hair is still wet from the showers, and it drips onto his shoulders. His eyes snap up from the floor, meeting yours. </p>
<p>“No,” he mutters, just as a droplet slides down his forehead, into his left eye. He blinks it away.<br/>
“Do you know what ‘affection’ means?” </p>
<p>He shakes his head, catching another droplet with the back of his hand. It annoys him, having wet hair. It <i>always</i> has. </p>
<p>“It means…” you chew your lip. “It means to be fond of something, or someone. Like your child, or maybe your friend, or parent, or lover.”<br/>
“Lover?” Kylo’s brow furrows. His knowledge of this word extends to the feeling, one he’s told he’ll know when he feels it. The added letter at the end throws him off balance. “You mean, to love?”<br/>
You sigh.<br/>
“Well, yeah,” you pick at your robes nervously. It makes you uncomfortable, describing things like this. Intimacy is a topic you’d rather not vocalise. “A lover is someone you love, obviously, but in a romantic way.”<br/>
“I don’t know what that means,” Kylo says immediately, not grasping the nature of the word. “Romantic. I’ve heard that word.”<br/>
“Well, it’s kind of like affection, but when you’re romantic with someone, it’s a different kind of love, a different kind of affection, than you’d feel for, you know, a friend, or your parent.”<br/>
“How?”<br/>
“It’s deeper. It’s….” you’re getting frustrated, now, and you don’t want to have to say the words. “I dunno, Kylo, you’ll know when you feel it.”</p>
<p>He senses it, that he’s annoyed you, that he’s pushed at a boundary that you don’t want him to cross. He’s not terribly familiar with boundaries, of course, doesn’t really know what they are. But he feels the irritation, how it flows around you in waves that lap at his senses. It unsettles him, how your feelings bleed into his own like this. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “What did you mean to say before, about affection?”<br/>
You shrug.<br/>
“Just that...Humans, it’s our nature, I think, to touch people affectionately.”<br/>
“How do you mean?”<br/>
“People show that they like each other, or that they understand each other, through touch. Does anyone touch you like that? Like, pat your shoulder, or hug you?”</p>
<p>Kylo tenses. He pushes away intrusive memories he doesn’t want, flashes of a frail, bony hand reaching for his face, images he doesn’t want to see. There’s no love in those moments, no affection, not really. Only hate, only torment. Instead, he settles on his only other experience of such contact. A memory of a young, fresh-faced Poe, hoisting him from a training mat, his hand clapping roughly to his back.<br/>
<i>“Best two outta three,” He’d winked. “I’ll let you win, this time.” </i></p>
<p>“One person,” Kylo murmurs. “He’d kind of, hit my back after we’d train. But he was laughing. He meant it kindly.”<br/>
“That’s affection,” you smile. “Do you still train together?”<br/>
Kylo swallows thickly, shaking his head quickly before shifting in his seat.<br/>
“What was that other word you said?”<br/>
“Um,” you think for a moment, recounting what you’d said. “Hug?”<br/>
“Yes,” Kylo thinks the word sounds strange. “What does that mean?” </p>
<p>You’re not sure you’ll ever be able to accurately describe the feeling that washes over you, then. This tremendous sense of guilt, of pure and utter sorrow and ache for the man who sits before you, his soaked raven hair only making the scene that ounce more pitiful. It hurts you, to think back on those baby photos of his - a smiling, contented child, wrapped in his favourite blue blanket. You’d hoped, back then, that maybe he’d been kidnapped by another desperate family, hoping to love and raise an infant of their own. You hoped his life, however different from how it should have been, was good, and joyous. It makes your heart shatter to think of how mistaken you’d been, how far you were from the reality of it all. On all those nights you’d spent at the bars with your friends, or falling asleep on your couch to old reruns, Ben Organa-Solo had been trapped in this room. Cold. Quiet. <i>Alone.</i></p>
<p>You know, really, that Ben has received affection. He’s been doted on by loving parents, he’s been hugged and kissed a thousand times over in those short six months his family had with him. But he doesn't know that. He doesn’t remember that. All he knows is this. All he knows is distance, control. Suffering. </p>
<p>“Kylo,” you start, your voice cracking slightly against your will. And he feels it, your heartache, and it unnerves him. “Have you never been hugged before?” </p>
<p>He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to respond. He doesn’t know what you mean, of course, but that’s not why he’s silent. No, he’s rattled. He can feel it, the depth, the sincerity of your sadness, and it’s creeping around his limbs, wrapping around his throat. </p>
<p>“A hug is an embrace, where someone wraps themselves around you, their arms, because they love you, or like you,” your voice trembles as you speak, and you resist the tears that threaten to spill. “Has no one ever touched you like that?” </p>
<p>Kylo only shakes his head, his eyes becoming glassy now as your emotions fill his mind, his soul. He’s not sad, he’s not upset, not really - but you are, and it’s bleeding right through him, coursing through his veins faster than he thinks anything ever has. He’s breathing unevenly, and he fights back a sob - the same sobs you choke on as you feel it, feel this wave of something cascading down your back, around your torso. You don’t know what it is, can’t even open your mouth to ask him, because words just won’t come. You only know what it feels like - that it feels like <i>him.</i></p>
<p>He sucks in a breath, steadying himself. </p>
<p>“Like that?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” you breathe, sniffling. You bask in it, the feel of it, how it vibrates right through your core. He doesn’t withdraw it, doesn’t take it away. He lets you sit with it, lets you close your eyes and really feel him - or as much of himself as he can give you, right now.<br/>
“Like that.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>You’re afforded few things in this compound. Peace is certainly not one of them. </p>
<p>You’d laid back onto the sheets, wrapped up in a feeling of safety and contentedness. Kylo hadn’t withdrawn his force, he’d left it with you, let you rest, all wrapped up in it. He could feel the quiet moment of tranquility that it brought you, how your mind went quiet. But you’ve come to realise that such serenity won’t last long, here. </p>
<p>The door crashes open again - and you wonder if they’ve ever bothered to knock. </p>
<p>“Dinner,” Vicrul grunts, gesturing to Kylo. “Get up, both of you.”</p>
<p>Another Knight walks in then, thundering across the room toward you. He grabs you by the front of your robes, hauling you off the bed. Kylo jerks forward, jumping to his feet, and you feel something then, inside you. Something feral, something violent. Something that doesn’t feel like it's <i>yours</i>. </p>
<p>“Cardo,” Kylo barks, and the volume of his voice makes you jump. “<i>Don’t</i>.”</p>
<p>You’ve never heard this, in your short time together. Never heard such authority, such tenacity. His reaction had been one of instinct, a knee-jerk reaction, and you realise that now as you examine his expression as you dangle in the Knight’s grip. His assurance is wavering, his body fighting to control the fear that rises in him. Fear you’re almost sure that you can <i>feel</i>. The Knight roughly releases you, and you tumble back onto the mattress. He turns indignantly to Kylo, fists clenching. </p>
<p>“How many lessons in respect do you need?” He hisses, rounding in on him. “Because I’ve got to say, I’m getting a little tired of having to put you in your place.”<br/>
“You don’t get to touch her,” Kylo snarls, unmoving. “She’s not yours to throw around.”<br/>
“Oh?” Cardo is right up in his face now, and you inch forward, apprehensive. “Whose is she, then? <i>Yours?</i>”<br/>
“Yes,” Vicrul interrupts, wedging a hand between them. “She’s to be our Empress, his wife. Unless you’d want someone throwing your wife around like that, I’d suggest you relax,” Cardo opens his mouth to protest, but Vicrul only grabs Kylo’s arm and shoves it roughly into Cardo’s hand. “Take him, I’ll take her,” he says, before turning to regard Kylo once more. “And <i>you</i>. Start showing respect, I won’t tell you again.” </p>
<p>Vicrul takes your arm by the crook of your elbow, pulling you out of the room. You glance up at him, though you can’t see much of his face. Stubble litters his jaw, and his lips are settled in a thin line.<br/>
“Thank you,” you manage weakly, your feet working overtime to keep up with his long strides.<br/>
He looks down at you for only a moment before turning away.<br/>
“He was too rough with you,” he grumbles. “Better to cut the habit before you become Empress. He’d get killed for that.”<br/>
“No,” you stumble slightly as your legs try in vain to match his speed. “I meant, you didn’t let him hurt Kylo.” </p>
<p>And you mean it, you do. You’d seen it, earlier, in the training room. The evidence of beatings, of wounds so deep you can’t fathom to think of how they were inflicted. You know, you do, that they hurt him. That everyone does. </p>
<p>Vicrul’s jaw tenses.<br/>
“They’re always at it,” he says passively. “It gets old.” </p>
<p>You approach a door, wooden and heavy. It seems that the compound was built precariously, materials be damned. You don’t think you’ve ever seen such a varied mix of wooden, steel and tin-metal doors. </p>
<p>“Do you have a name?” you ask, because truly, you can’t tell them apart, don’t know who’s who.<br/>
He hesitates for a moment, before he makes a defeated sound.<br/>
“Vicrul.”<br/>
“Vicrul,” you repeat. You tell him your name, your real name, and he nods in response.<br/>
“Not a fan of Snoke’s given name, then.”<br/>
“If I wanted a new name, I’d give myself one.” </p>
<p>You think you see a hint of a smile on his face, then, just as he pushes through the door. Kylo is shoved through just behind you, Cardo’s fist wrapped around his forearm tight enough to bruise. He releases him gracelessly, and Vicrul’s hand slips from your arm. Your eyes adjust to change in lighting, the fluorescence of the hallway disappearing as the Knights retreat back into the corridor. </p>
<p>“Good evening.” </p>
<p>The voice sends your heart into your throat, and Kylo steps slightly closer to you. He swallows, contemplating his words before he speaks. </p>
<p>“I know you’re afraid,” he murmurs. “I can feel it. But I won’t let him hurt you,” he looks at you, then. “Not again.”<br/>
You smile weakly, nodding in appreciation. </p>
<p>“Come,” Snoke calls. “Sit.” </p>
<p>You follow Kylo to the table, taking the seat next to him. There’s another man at the table, Kylo’s age, with slick ginger hair and snow white skin. You wonder if they’re all like this - pale, pasty, unacquainted with sunlight. </p>
<p>“My Lady,” Snoke says, addressing you as you fold your hands tightly in your lap. “Allow me to introduce you to Armitage Hux,” he gestures across the table to the red-haired man. He looks up nervously, offering a polite smile, a stiff nod. “He’s our general, here, and Ren’s second in command. You’ll be seeing a lot of him, when you step into your title.”<br/>
You nod politely at Armitage.<br/>
“It’s a pleasure, my Lady,” he says quickly. “I’ve heard plenty about you.”<br/>
“All good things, I hope,” you murmur sarcastically, the way your mother would when introduced to friends of friends at weddings and dinner parties. You fix your gaze to your hands, nervously twitching your fingers.<br/>
“Oh, of course,” Armitage rushes, nodding frantically. “We’ve known about you for years, you’re very accomplished.”<br/>
Your eyes immediately snap back to his.<br/>
“Alright, now, Armitage,” Snoke hushes. “That’s enough,” he gestures to the waiter, who begins filling your glasses with what you can only assume is wine. His skin is pale, too, and his dark hair sticks to his forehead that sheens in a nervous sweat. "You’ll have to excuse Brendol’s absence this evening, he has work to attend to.” </p>
<p><i>That’s quite alright,</i> you think, remembering the man from the car. You aren’t sure of his name, but you’re sure that if Snoke deemed him important enough to assist him in taking you, that he’d have a place at the dinner table. </p>
<p>“I’d rather not,” you say, gesturing to the wine. You’re feeling brave, now, though you don’t know why.<br/>
“What is it, sir?” Kylo asks, picking up his glass and inspecting the liquid. You’re not sure why it surprises you, that Kylo doesn’t know what wine is, but it does. You think, perhaps, he just looks the <i>type</i> to be a wine drinker, despite not knowing how to tell time. </p>
<p>“Wine,” Snoke confirms, swirling his glass in his hand. “It’s what we drink when we celebrate. And we have everything to celebrate, don’t we? Your future wife, your new love, our glowing future,” he grins, and the sight turns you off the thought of food. “And you’ll drink it, girl, because I said so.”<br/>
Kylo places his glass back on the table.<br/>
“What if she doesn’t like it?”<br/>
Snoke clears his throat, eyes raking over Kylo’s face, his hair.<br/>
“She’ll drink it because she’ll do as she’s told,” he leans forward, then. “What don’t we do at this table, Ren?”<br/>
“Complain,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry, sir.”<br/>
“Your hair is damp.”<br/>
“I know, sir, I’m sorry, they took me to the showers later than usual.”<br/>
“It shouldn’t be damp at the dinner table.”<br/>
“It’s not his fault,” you chime in, fists clenching in your lap. “There’s a shower in our bedroom, you know that, <i>you</i> put it there. He should be using that one, he shouldn’t have to be taken somewhere else. He’s capable on his own.”<br/>
Kylo’s head whips around to face you, panicked. Snoke hums.<br/>
“Is that so?” he leans back in his seat, his attention moving back to Kylo. “Capable, are you?”<br/>
Kylo swallows, then nods confidently.<br/>
“Yes, sir.”<br/>
Snoke guffaws.<br/>
“I should hope so, if you’re to be an Emperor,” he sips from his glass, slurping as he does. “Fine, you’ll shower in your quarters from now on.”<br/>
Kylo’s brows almost hit his hairline, and he stutters slightly as he looks to Snoke.<br/>
“T-thank you, sir.” </p>
<p>Silence befalls the table, and your food is delivered to you on shining, porcelain plates. You poke at it with your fork, and it seems well cooked, seems edible - even though the peas are slightly discoloured, and the roast potatoes slightly burnt. You know, really, that Snoke has no intentions of killing you. He would have done it already, had he so desired. No, you know that he needs you. You know that you fit, somehow, into his twisted fantasy of how he wants the world to be - a world under Kylo Ren’s rule, a world under a new <i>God</i>.<br/>
Still, though. He’d drugged you, back in that car. He hit you. He doesn’t mind hurting you, not one bit. You wouldn’t put it past him to try his hand at making you sick, at making you miserable just for the hell of it. </p>
<p>Kylo watches as you move your food around on your plate, not once lifting your fork to your lips. His chewing slows, and he swallows before he speaks. You wonder if he’s been taught to do so. </p>
<p>“You haven’t eaten since you arrived,” he murmurs, his voice so quiet you can only barely hear him. “You should eat.”<br/>
“I’m not hungry.”<br/>
“Yes you are,” he argues. “You’ll only feel sick if you don’t eat.” </p>
<p>You can see Armitage raise his head to look at the pair of you, and you notice how he looks at Kylo. He’s surprised, that much you can tell. Of what, you aren’t sure. </p>
<p>Snoke chuckles, leaning back in his seat. </p>
<p>“I’d gain nothing from poisoning you,” he sighs. “I’d only set us back to square one.” </p>
<p>Kylo looks pointedly to your plate, and you wonder if he can feel it, if he can feel your hunger pains like he claims to be able to feel everything else. </p>
<p>“May I ask a question?” You ask, relenting and piling some potatoes onto your fork.<br/>
“You may,” Snoke replies apprehensively, eyeing you cautiously.<br/>
“All of this,” you gesture around the room. “Your...community. Does it have a name?”<br/>
Snoke smiles slyly. </p>
<p>“The First Order, my darling,” he says proudly, holding his hands out in a show of sheer arrogance. “Welcome to your new home.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">come and say hello on tumblr!</a>
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        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter Fourteen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“You can feel me,” he breathes, bloodshot and hazy eyes meeting yours. “You can feel that.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Kylo shows his duality, and has his first hangover. A warning: This chapter contains the aftermath of forced alcohol consumption.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You’re not opening up,” he slurs. “You’re supposed to be able to feel me, but the force keeps bouncing back.” </p>
<p>He spins in his seat and you roll your eyes at his nonsense, making for the bed and pulling his side of the duvet down. </p>
<p>“You’re not making any sense.”<br/>
“Yes I am,” he insists, spinning again.<br/>
“Stop spinning, you’ll make yourself sick.”<br/>
“Why do I feel like this?” He sounds almost devastated, as though the sensation of the alcohol surging through his system has shattered his heart right in two.<br/>
“Do you feel sick? Like you’ll vomit?”<br/>
“No,” he hums. “I feel like that word you said before. <i>Weird</i>.”<br/>
“You’ve never drank before,” you state, moving around the bed to stand before him. “Your body is just reacting to the wine.”<br/>
“I don’t like it,” he declares quietly. “Why do they do this to celebrate? It feels awful.”<br/>
“It’ll feel worse tomorrow,” you sigh, placing your hands on your hips.<br/>
“I don’t want to drink it again.”<br/>
“That’s okay,” you assure him, nodding as you speak. “You don’t have to, ever again.”<br/>
“Good.”<br/>
“You need to change into your sleepwear,” you say quietly, nodding to the bathroom. “You need to sleep this off.”<br/>
He looks toward the bathroom, spinning in his seat again.<br/>
“Kylo,” your tone is commanding, and he stops still, eyes settling on you. “I mean it, you’ll make yourself sick.”<br/>
He complies, then, getting up from his seat and starting toward the bathroom. He’s unsteady on his feet, but he manages, and shuts the door firmly behind him. </p>
<p>You sigh in relief, crawling under the sheets. You’d quickly changed into your nightwear after returning from the dinner, Kylo too engrossed in his pen - which had garnered a new charm through his drunken scrutiny - to notice. You hated feeling so exposed, so inappropriately bare around him, but your day robes make you itch, and they constrict around your appendages uncomfortably. You burrow into the pillows, curling up into yourself to contain your own body heat. You hate it, how cold it is in this compound, in this room. You wonder how anyone gets any sleep. </p>
<p>A crack of light streams into the room as Kylo emerges from the bathroom, blinking several times as his eyes adjust to the dim glow of the bedroom. You think it unfair, how Snoke had forced the drink upon him, how Kylo had never expected, never understood that it would spark a change within his body. Your mind slips back to that moment, where he’d tentatively taken his first sip of the red liquid. You think of how his nose crinkled in disgust, how his eyes screwed shut at the bitterness, how he’d cleared his throat three times just to rid it of the aftertaste.<br/>
“What does it taste like?” you’d asked, wondering what he’d thought of it, wondering if the taste would grow on him, like it did on you after so many years of everyone <i>insisting</i> you <i>had</i> to enjoy wine.<br/>
“Vinegar,” he’d rasped, eyes watering as he placed his glass back on the table. “It tastes like vinegar.” </p>
<p>
He hovers at the foot of the bed, eyes raking across the expanse of the sheets. He moves toward his side, fingers twitching as he resists pulling them into fists. </p>
<p>“I can sleep on the floor,” you offer, sitting up and leaning your weight on one arm. “If it makes you more comfortable.”<br/>
“No,” he blurts, inching closer toward the bed. “No. It’s-It’s fine. I think I...I don’t mind it, you being here.”<br/>
“Okay,” you murmur, shifting backward as far as you can, allowing him as much room as possible.<br/>
He slides under the sheets, but doesn’t turn away from you, as he did before. He lays facing you, though rigidly maintaining a safe distance from your body heat. He winches, his eyes squeezing shut as he groans softly. </p>
<p>“Do you feel dizzy? Like the room is spinning?”<br/>
“Yes,” he grunts, rubbing at his eyes. “This feels horrible.”<br/>
“I know,” you smile softly. “But it’ll pass.”<br/>
“Have you felt this before?”<br/>
You chuckle.<br/>
“Many, many times,” you allow a grin to form on your lips, memories of parties and friends and laughter reverberate around your mind. It’s a sobering thought, really. That your experiences with the very same liquid offer only joyous, gleeful memories, when he’d been forced to drink it as he sat stiffly at an oak dining table with his captor. “In fact, I’ve felt it much worse, too.”<br/>
Kylo grunts in disgust.<br/>
“It can be worse?”<br/>
“So, so much worse,” you laugh, and Kylo makes a face of displeasure. “You might have a headache in the morning,” you warn. “But it should pass, after that.” </p>
<p>He grunts again, nuzzling into the pillows. You marvel at the sight, at this small show of security, or at the very least, comfort - despite his stupor. He hums, and you raise your eyebrows. </p>
<p>“I do,” he whispers, curling his legs toward his chest. “Feel comfortable.”<br/>
“Good,” you breathe. “That’s important,” you move your arm underneath your pillow, holding it for warmth. “I don’t ever want to make you feel uncomfortable. Can I ask you to promise me something?”<br/>
Kylo nods in agreement, his sleepy gaze falling on your exposed shoulders.<br/>
“Will you promise to tell me if I ever make you feel that way? Because I need to know, so I know what not to do, and what I <i>should</i> do, to make you feel...secure.”<br/>
He blinks, and his brows furrow slightly.<br/>
“Why do you want that?” he asks finally, swallowing thickly to suppress a yawn. He shakes his head slightly, grimacing at the sensation of a forming headache.<br/>
“Want what?”<br/>
“To make me feel...<i>secure</i>.”<br/>
“Because, Kylo,” your tone is serious, and it brings his senses to their full attention. “You deserve nothing less.”<br/>
“I thought,” he mumbles, momentarily losing then regaining his train of thought. “I thought you were afraid. Of me. I felt it earlier. You were angry with me, you didn’t want me here.” </p>
<p>“No,” you shake your head. “I mean, yes, I was afraid. But I know that they’ve made you do...<i>things</i>. They’ve been trying to force you to be someone you’re not. To do things that you never would have done if they didn’t make you. Does that sound right?” </p>
<p>Kylo nods only slightly, shame creeping through his gut. You’re right, he knows you are, but <i>still</i>. He should be stronger, he should be capable enough to fend for himself, to surpass such orders. </p>
<p>“You said you wouldn’t hurt me, and I believe you,” you continue. “So no, I’m not afraid of you.” </p>
<p>You’re sure you can feel it this time, when the relief floods through Kylo's soul, gushing through every cell in his body like a cascading waterfall. The sensation causes your skin to buzz, goosebumps forming on your arms, your shoulders. Every hair on your body stands on end, the current of <i>him</i> coursing through your veins like he's infected your blood, seeping into your senses as though it's <i>yours</i>. </p>
<p>“You can feel me,” he breathes, bloodshot and hazy eyes meeting yours. “You can feel that.”<br/>
You nod cautiously, eyes wide, breath hitching - because what <i>is</i> this?<br/>
“W-why?” you manage, the buzz of his emotions, his sensations, still ringing in your ears. You’re even certain that you can feel the nausea he denies, the dizziness, the drunken fog that disrupts his trains of thought. </p>
<p>“It’s the prophecy,” he says softly, and you can feel how the respite, the relief has allowed him enough tranquility to drift toward slumber. “Our souls, they’re bonded.”<br/>
His words trail off, then, as his eyes settle shut and he slides into sleep. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>**</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When you wake, Kylo is already at his desk. He rests his head in his hand, running his fingers absently through the curls of his hair. You stretch, your limbs gliding across the silk of the sheets. Kylo turns his head to observe you, watching as your back arches and your neck elongates. He wishes he could find the words to describe you, to articulate how it feels just to watch you, just to sit silently in your presence. He hopes you’ll teach him, hopes you’ll show him how to prove to you that he’s not like Snoke, that he’s not cut from the same cloth that he’s bound to. Because for some reason, a reason he can’t quite discern, he feels compelled to, compelled to prove such things to you. And, perhaps, to himself. </p>
<p>“Good morning,” you hum, burrowing back into the sheets. “How’s your head?” </p>
<p>Kylo makes a noise of discontentment. It’s been irritating him, this steady and rhythmic pulsating that pounds against his skull, right between his eyes.<br/>
“It hurts,” he mumbles. “Like you said.”</p>
<p>You reach around you, your hands clambering against the wood of the bedside table.<br/>
“Here,” you say, pouring him a glass of water from the jug that sits upon it. You’re not sure where it comes from, or who fills it. You only know that it’s there, refilled whenever you reenter the room. “Drink this. Water helps.” </p>
<p>You slip out from beneath the sheets, approaching him cautiously as he watches your movements. It concerns you, sometimes, when he looks at you like this, though you’re unsure as to why. You decide against handing him the glass directly, and place it carefully on his desk, ensuring you keep your distance as you do. His eyes follow you as you walk back to the bed, the cold spurring your actions. </p>
<p>“Thank you,” he murmurs.<br/>
“You don’t have to drink it again, you know,” you lay back against the headboard. “If Snoke ever tries to make you drink it again, I won’t let him.”<br/>
Kylo only nods, maintaining the silence between you for several moments before he finally speaks, turning to give you his full attention.<br/>
“There’s something I don’t understand about you.”<br/>
“Oh? What’s that?”<br/>
“You’re scared of Snoke,” he states, nodding his head as he speaks. “You are, I can feel how terrified you are of him. But yet, you antagonise him.”<br/>
“Well,” you crinkle your nose at the thought of him, of his bony digits and sunken eyes. “I’m not particularly fond of him.”<br/>
“Nor am I,” he’s serious now, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But if you provoke him, he’ll attack. I know, he’s done it to me. I don’t want to see him...To see him do that to you. And he will, if you don’t stop.” </p>
<p>You bite your lip, running a hand across your jaw in thought. You know he’s desperate to help you, to protect you, that much is abundantly clear. Though the roles should be reversed - you’re here to save him. You’re so well acquainted with the man who sits before you, it’s as though you’ve known him half your life. But he’s only <i>just</i> met you. </p>
<p>“I don’t want him to think he can break me,” you admit. “And even...Even if he does, even if he rips me apart, I don’t want to go down without a fight.”<br/>
“He won’t,” he affirms quickly. “I won’t...I wouldn’t let him.” </p>
<p>You sigh softly, and you’re unsure whether or not to be grateful, whether or not to tell him that he shouldn’t be doing this, that he shouldn’t be so protective of someone he barely knows. Of someone whose intent he hasn’t yet uncovered. </p>
<p>“I’ve been meaning to thank you,” you say, your fingers twirling around the hem of the duvet cover.<br/>
“For what?”<br/>
“You didn’t let that Knight be too rough with me earlier. Cardo, I think.”<br/>
Kylo makes a face.<br/>
“He’s a brute,” he mumbles, sitting up straight. “He’s always been rough with me, I didn’t want him touching you like that.”<br/>
“But why?”<br/>
Kylo shakes his head in confusion.<br/>
“Why what?”<br/>
“Why do you want to protect me?” </p>
<p>Kylo is taken aback by your question, and his eyes flit around the room in panic. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to say it, how to show you. Moreover, he’s not even sure if he <i>should</i>. If you’d even want to hear it. He contemplates it, thinks about how he could simply show you through the force, how he wouldn’t have to say a word. But he can hear the quiet drone of your thoughts, how you’re patiently awaiting the sound of his voice. He stammers for a moment before collecting himself, breathing roughly through his nose. </p>
<p>“I’ve known about you for a long time,” he starts, fidgeting with the material of his robes as he speaks. “Since I was a boy, I knew you’d come because of the prophecy. He wouldn’t tell me your name, but I think that’s because I used to write words that I liked everywhere. It would really annoy him when I did that,” his eyes fall to his feet, and you can see how the memory causes a crack in his already unstable composure.<br/>
“I’ve always known that you’d show up, at some point. I just...I didn’t know when, or why. He only told me that we’d be bound together. I didn’t understand the rest. I still don’t. So when he told me that he was bringing me someone to love...I-I didn't know it was the prophecy. Not then. B-But I felt you, sometimes. Back then, I didn’t know it was you. It just felt like <i>something</i>. Like...a disturbance in the force. But then you arrived and what I felt when I saw you, i-it was the same thing. It’s as though you’ve always been here, beside me somehow, even before I knew who you were. And it scared me, when I first saw you, because it felt like you belonged, and I’ve always been alone,” he swallows thickly, avoiding the weight of your gaze. Your eyes are misty now, clouding over with unshed tears.<br/>
“I want to protect you because you feel like a part of me,” he breathes. “And because...B-because he was right about it, how you belong beside me. I-I think...I <i>feel</i> that it’s true.” </p>
<p>You swallow, shaking your head. </p>
<p>“You’re attached to me because you’ve never known anyone else like this.”<br/>
“No,” his eyes snap up to meet yours. “That’s not it.”<br/>
“Yes, it is,” your eyes plead with him, but the force of his stare is unrelenting. “Kylo, you don’t even know me, you know nothing about me.”<br/>
“Yes, I do,” he gets up, then, and stands stoically by the foot of the bed. His voice is impossibly deeper, and a sense of complete and utter dominion rolls off him in thrashing waves. “I know more about you than you think.” </p>
<p>You see it now, the duality of him. The multiplicity of selves that exist within this body. The frightened boy that itches desperately for connection, the soft-spoken man who aches to learn. But the determination, the authority that oozes from him now paints his features in a different light. This, you think, is Kylo Ren. This is the man to be feared, <i>this</i> the deity Snoke expects the world to bow to. Perhaps, you think, as his stern eyes pierce into yours, they would.  </p>
<p>“Is that right?”<br/>
“Yes,” he nods. “Your thoughts are loud, so are your dreams.”<br/>
“What are you getting at?” </p>
<p>“I know why you wanted to come here.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">come and say hello on tumblr!</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter Fifteen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Kylo shows you what he knows to be true.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You don’t offer him much reaction. Your mouth hangs slightly open though, and his eyes fall to your lips with the movement, settling there as his chews at his cheek in thought. You’re too jolted to notice, too jolted to speak, too jolted to even ask him how he could possibly know the one thing you’ve been sure to shelter him from. </p><p>“You see them,” he says, looming over you, his shadow encompassing your frame. “In your dreams. You see their faces, the girl and the man who wait for you outside,” he clears his throat softly, a flicker of something flitting across his iron features for only a moment. “And the face of two parents. And then, you see me.” </p><p>His presence is austere, almost militant as he stares you down. You can feel it, too, how the tension rolls off him like a slow wave at low tide, inching along the shore. He’s simmering, keeping whatever anger, whatever irritation he festers inside under lock and key. Your mouth runs dry, and you almost panic, almost get up and run - but where would you go? You’re trapped, you’re acutely aware of that. Cornered not only by this compound, but by Kylo Ren himself.<br/>
You swallow thickly, the fluid sticking uncomfortably in your throat. You hear the gravel of Wedge’s voice from that Friday afternoon, then, and you can almost see him limping around his desk with the bad knee he swears is ‘<i>just fine</i>’. </p><p>“<i>You’re trying to bite off way more than you can chew, here, kid.” </i></p><p>Perhaps. </p><p>You clear your throat, drawing Kylo’s attention from your mouth back to your eyes. </p><p>“What do you mean?”<br/>
“You know exactly what I mean,” he doesn’t move, barely even blinks as he keeps his gaze fixed to you. “You’re thinking about it right now.”<br/>
“So you know <i>everything</i>?”<br/>
Kylo scoffs indignantly, eyes rolling slightly.<br/>
“We both know I still know next to nothing.” </p><p>You know he can hear you, when you think. Well, you know it now, at least. Perhaps not when it actually mattered. Still, though, you don’t care. Or maybe you do, and are just too bold to thoroughly think through consequences of brazenly setting out to bait him. It doesn’t matter why, you suppose. You do it anyway. </p><p>“What don’t you know, then?” You ask, a clear attempt at forcing him to sidestep. If Kylo notices, he doesn’t comment. He simply looks at you - examining you, really. His eyes travel down the curvature of your neck as you tilt it to the side in thought. He’s mute, brooding, almost. You think, maybe, he won’t answer you. That he’ll simply wait for you to speak again, patiently observing you until you fracture under the weight of his silent scrutiny. But no. It’s Kylo who cracks - suddenly and without warning, like an eruption spewing deep from the earth’s molten core. You feel the rage fly off him in searing sparks, biting violently at your poise. He detonates with all the force of a vicious grenade and you jump right out of your skin at the sound of his shout. </p><p>“I don’t know <i>why</i> it’s me! I don’t know why I’m the Chosen One. I don’t know why I can use the force, and others can’t. I don’t know what the force is. I don’t know <i>anything</i>, because they don’t <i>tell</i> me!” his eyes are crazed, downright berserk as he clenches his hands into fists. He turns swiftly on his heel, his fist connecting violently with the wall. He doesn’t turn back to you, nor does he withdraw his fist. He remains in place, dipping his forehead to meet the cold surface as he speaks to the floor.</p><p>“I don’t understand what people mean when they speak to me. I don’t understand why I’m not allowed to look at people, or know anyone. I don’t understand any of this and I <i>never</i> have!” he pushes himself back to face you, bloodshot eyes flicking frantically across your face in search of an inkling of understanding. Sweat beads on his forehead, a droplet hangs precariously from his eyebrow. </p><p>“I don’t know why they brought me here. I don’t know why they chose me. I don’t know why I’m part of this, and I don’t know why you’re part of it, either. I-I know it’s the prophecy but I don’t know <i>why</i>. I don’t know why I feel…” he swallows, trailing off. He abandons the train of thought, shaking his head. He blinks furiously as that minute bead of sweat lands on his iris. He sighs, worn out from his own outburst. </p><p>“You thought you’d decided to come here on your own,” he murmured, too tired, too drained to speak any louder. “You thought you were doing something just. But you weren’t. The force drove you here, like the prophecy said it would. You just didn’t know it.” </p><p>When he lifts his eyes to look at you, his derangement fading into something softer, something forlorn, you know you’ve failed. There’s no story here, no career catapulting narrative that Wedge and Rose can put forth into the world. There’s no entertainment to be found in the somber honey of Kylo’s eyes. Exposure, justice be damned. There’s nothing here but torment, confusion. Wilted hopes of heroism and valor juxtaposed by a devastating confusion and soul crushing isolation.</p><p>“I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I could help you.”<br/>
The tears that prod at your eyelids are hot, stinging through the dryness caused by the stale, recycled air of a windowless room.<br/>
“I know.”<br/>
“Is that not what you want?” Your voice cracks as you speak and you condemn yourself, because you’re supposed to be together, supposed to be strong - at least for him, at least in this moment. “To go home?”<br/>
“I don’t know what I want,” he avoids your stare, because he can feel it, too. Feel the burn of tears and the lump in his throat. He’s not sure if they’re yours, or his. “But I don’t think I should leave this place.”<br/>
“Why not?” You sit up a little straighter, clamouring for a hook, for a bite, for any little glimmer that Kylo might actually let you bring him home. “Haven’t you ever wondered who your parents are?”<br/>
“Of course,” and he has. He’d stay up at night, eyes glued to the peeling paint of the ceiling, thinking of Poe, of how he’d talk so joyously about his father. He wondered, of course, if he had one, too. He hoped he did. At least, he did then. “But they’re not here. I don’t know them.”<br/>
“They <i>miss</i> you, they’d do anything to have you back.”<br/>
“Would they? Would they want me if they knew what I’ve done? If they knew what I could do?”<br/>
“You’re their <i>son</i>.”<br/>
“They don’t know me,” Kylo stands straighter, valiantly rebuilding his wavering composure. “And I don’t know them. I don’t even remember them.”<br/>
“Kylo-”<br/>
“But I know The First Order. And I know <i>you</i>.” </p><p>He knows what you’re thinking. He can feel it, feel the desperation that courses through you as you try to make him see, see what he already knows. What he’s already discerned. </p><p>“But this place, Snoke-”<br/>
“I know. I’d like to say that I figured it out on my own, and maybe in a way, I did. But I learned through you.”<br/>
“Learned what through me?”<br/>
“That even though all of this is supposed to be for me, really, it’s for him,” he gestures vaguely around the room. “I know what I am. I know I’m just a vehicle for his plan, because I’m the only one who can execute it. But I don’t think I really knew that before you.”<br/>
“He doesn’t care for you.”<br/>
“I know.”<br/>
“So why won’t you <i>leave</i>?”<br/>
“I <i>can’t</i>,” his eyes settle on yours. “<i>We</i> can’t,” his gaze holds a ferocity behind it, one that says not to question him, not to test him further. But you do, anyway.<br/>
“You can!” You flail your arms in a pathetic show of irritation. “Look what you can <i>do</i>, Kylo! You could easily get out of here.”<br/>
“No, I can’t. I have a duty here, we both do,” he shakes his head. “We have a calling and the prophecies...They’re <i>clearly</i> true.”<br/>
“None of that should have to fall on your shoulders.”<br/>
“Then how come it does?” he lifts his chin in defiance as he speaks. “This is my destiny. And it’s yours, too.”<br/>
“No-”<br/>
“Yes. It is. Here,” he holds out his hand, positioning the palm only a few inches from your face. “Let me show you.” </p><p>
  <i>And then you’re pushed, pulled, downright hurled - but in no particular direction. You tumble downwards, upwards, sidewards. You try to scream, but no sound comes. There’s no sound at all - just static silence, even as you’re hurtled through what feels like time and space itself. You’re sure, absolutely positive that your eyes are open, and you blink wildly just to be sure - but there’s no light. Nothing but void space, nothing but black. You can feel a foreign sense of laden, crushing pressure squeeze at your bones, tighter and tighter and tighter and -</i>
</p><p>
  <i>You’re deposited gracelessly into a chair, though your body doesn’t move as you land. You try to turn your head, try to familiarise yourself with your surroundings, but your body doesn’t respond to your demands. You’re at the mercy of its actions, you realise, as you feel your fingertips drum against the armrest. The room is dark, dimly lit only by several dozen half-burnt candles that line the mahogany panelled walls. It’s night time, it must be, you can sense it. The subdued atmosphere of the room hangs heavily over your rattled frame. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>“My love?” </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Your body turns slowly to look in the direction of the voice - deep baritone, unmistakable. You’ve come to know it so well in such a short time, you’re beginning to wonder if you find comfort in it. And he’s there, draped in black leather, looking at you in a way you’re sure no one ever has. He reaches across the small sliver of space that separates your throne from his - because of course it’s a throne, it must be - fingers intertwining with yours without hesitation. Without a flinch, without fear. The jolt of pure electricity that surges along your veins as his skin connects with yours has little effect on the body you’re encased in, though it submerges your mind in a warp of energy, of something potent that feels simply like <b>him</b>. He finds your eyes then, bowing his head slightly to ensure your gaze finds his.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Oh,” he murmurs. “It’s you.” </i>
</p><p>You’re hurtled back into reality with substantial force, coming back into consciousness laid out on the bed. You don’t know how you’ve landed here, or if you’ve been moved. Your breath comes in inelegant heaves as your limbs tremble erratically. </p><p>“It’s alright, you’re okay. You’re back.” </p><p>His voice is nearer than it should be, closer than it’s ever been, and when you turn your head - he’s there, laying on his side beside you, mere inches between you. </p><p>“Wh..What was that?” Your words come in breathless whispers.<br/>
“Our future.” </p><p>Your throat is dry, and you realise you’re out of words. Out of answers. You don’t know what to say to that, because what <i>can</i> you say? Your mind races, arduously trying to process any and all of this. But he’s patient with you, unmoving and silent as your mind tumbles across plains of impossibilities. Your eyes fall shut as you think, and you can feel his stare travel up, down and across your features. After what feels like an eternity of fruitless, panicked thought, you speak.</p><p>“When you heard my thoughts...my dreams,” your voice is soft, tentative as he lifts his head to meet your stare. “Did you hear your name?”<br/>
He’s silent for a moment, eyes studying the miniscule movements of your face. He wonders if there’s a word more apt, more fitting for what he sees than ‘<i>pretty</i>’.<br/>
“Yes,” he breathes, and for the first time, you can feel it fan across your face as he speaks. “Ben.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">come say hello on tumblr!</a> i love hearing from you.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter Sixteen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Kylo learns some new words, and you somewhat accept a very real part of your fate. </p>
<p>This chapter is fairly introspective for both reader and Kylo. It probably sounds like I'm saying a whole lot of nothing, but I'm a character focused soul, and I like to expand on the way they think.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’ve gotten used to the silence. The weight of it, how it hangs so heavy in the cool of the room. It’s not like the quiet you’re used to - the flat hum of traffic, the incessant ticking of your kitchen clock, the fan of your overtired laptop whirring away into the night. The silence you endure now is void of any quotidian drone. It’s thick, hefty, but not uncomfortable. It’s the snug, neutral space that lies between what’s been said, and what remains surreptitiously covert in the caverns of Kylo’s mind. It breaks, sometimes, with the scratch of his pen on parchment, the sound of his foot tapping gently against the hardwood floor. </p>
<p>You’re not sure how many days it’s been. You’re not sure of much of anything anymore. You think, perhaps, it’s been five or so days. You’ve trained as many times. Well, Kylo has trained, and you have sat cross legged against the wall, ashamedly entranced by his form. Your eyes follow him as he moves, his colossal frame so impossibly agile, so delicate as it passes through the air. </p>
<p>He offers you his hand after every lesson, allowing you to pull on his strength to bring your fatigued form to your feet. This is the only time he touches you, and this is enough. Enough for both of you, at least, right now. You’re not sure, really, why you quietly desire more of his contact. Because you <em> shouldn’t </em> . It’s inappropriate, and not at <em> all </em> why you’re here. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. </p>
<p>Every evening, you dine with Snoke and Armitage Hux. And every evening, they drone on and on and on until you can’t hear them anymore. Snoke barks at you to sit up straight, and you do. Kylo warns him to watch his tone with you, and he does. Kylo thinks he’s winning, when that happens. That he’s bruised the Supreme Leader, that he’s dominated the room and everyone in it. But he hasn’t. You can tell - can see how Snoke’s thin lips curl upward in a poorly hidden smirk. It’s a deliberate bait, this much you know. For what benefit, you aren’t sure. Though, he hasn’t mentioned the ‘ceremony’, or ‘wedding’, or whatever he wants to call it. It hasn’t bothered you, not much, anyway. In a compound like this, where so few use their birth-given names, where so many identities have been stripped and ravaged, you don’t imagine any form of marriage will be legally binding. It gives you solace to know that it will be a performative act, simply to appease the Leader. Because that’s what he is - the Leader. But not <em> your </em> leader. </p>
<p>You return to your chambers, escorted by the Knights. Vicrul handles you, and he’ll speak to you quietly about the weather. You haven’t been outside yet, though he tells you there’s not much to see: <em> “The walls of the compound are level with the height of the building itself. It’s a wonder any light gets in at all.” </em></p>
<p>Kylo sits at his desk when you return, though you haven’t pressed him to show you exactly what he does when he picks up his pen. He’ll tell you in his own time, you think. </p>
<p>He sleeps facing you now, and closer than before. He still leaves about a foot between you, but the tremendousness of such seemingly tiny advancements is not lost on you. You feel him inching closer to you, bit by bit, day by day. In his own time. At his own pace. In his own way. And through this propinquity, you’ve found a sordid kind of security. One you shouldn’t feel, one that sends your moral compass flitting every which way. But one you experience, nonetheless. </p>
<p>He follows you into your dreams, sometimes. Nightmares, usually. You’ll sense him - you can do that, now, apparently. He’ll destroy them - the nightmares. Obliterate the jagged, wretched things until they’re nothing but shards of glass on the floor of a desolate room. He’ll leave, then, silently. Let you rebuild from there.<br/>When you wake, he’ll be at his desk. As he is now. As he always seems to be. </p>
<p>It’s your routine. A forced one, of course, but one you’ve found a strange comfort in. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey,” you’re perched on the foot of the bed, and he turns in his seat to face you. “I was thinking I could teach you some more words,” you offer him a timid smile. “If you’d like, of course.” <br/>“Y-yes,” he stammers, dropping his pen. He’s nodding so emphatically, so excitedly, you can’t help but grin. “I’d really like that.” <br/>“Great!” You look around you, unsure as to where to start. “Um, do you want to use the desk or should we just...sit like this?” <br/>Kylo hesitates for a moment, mouth opening and shutting without sound. He turns sharply, collecting the parchment that clutters his desk and hurriedly shoving them into the top drawer. It sticks ever so slightly, and he forcibly pushes it shut. </p>
<p>“We can use the desk,” he rushes, abruptly getting to his feet and moving away from his chair. “You can sit.” <br/>“Oh, no,” you shake your head as you stand. “It’ll be better if you sit, so you can write.” <br/>He hesitates, looking at the wooden chair, then back at you. <br/>“A-are you sure? I don’t mind standing.” <br/>“I’ve been sitting all day, I’ll be just fine.” </p>
<p>Though seemingly unconvinced, he settles back into the chair, pulling a blank sheet of parchment from the neatly stacked pile he’s curated in the corner of his desk. </p>
<p>“Is there anything in particular you’d like me to teach you?” You come to stand just behind him to look over his shoulder, leaving a little less than a foot between you. He’s large, even when he sits, and you think he looks quite out of place on such a small, unstable chair. </p>
<p>You find him quite paradoxical in a strange sort of way. His strongly built, portentous frame and jet black locks convey something so foreboding, so dangerous. The baritone boom of his voice at the dining table, barking orders because<em> no one </em> should touch you, <em> no one </em> should berate you. It lends an ominous aura to an already threatening figure. But then, the fragility of him, the tenderness of his tone, the gentle fan of his breath across your skin as you fall asleep each night. It allows for a capricious, esoteric sort of identity, its complexity too large, too deep - you often worry that you’ll never quite understand him. </p>
<p>“You will,” he murmurs, head tilting to face you. “You’re just afraid to look.” </p>
<p>Your eyes catch his for only a moment before you clear your throat. You’d rather not venture down the path of the force this evening. Thinking of such a thing only causes your head to ache. </p>
<p>“So,” you say, nodding your head. “Anything in particular, or will I just pick at random?” <br/>“Pretty,” he blurts, snapping his head up to find your bemused gaze. <br/>“You already know that word.” <br/>“I know, but I want to know what comes next.” <br/>“What comes next?” Your brows furrow, and Kylo pulls his bottom lip between his teeth in agitation. It deeply frustrates him when he can’t quite articulate what he means to say, and you know it does. “It’s okay, I know it can be hard to get your point across sometimes.” <br/>“I mean…” he sighs, and he’s <em> trying </em> , trying to find the words, trying to find a way to string them together. “What word would mean ‘pretty’, but <em> more </em>? You said there are words that mean similar things.”<br/>“A word that’s maybe, stronger than ‘pretty’?<br/>“Yes,” he nods his head eagerly. “That’s what I mean.” <br/>“How about ‘beautiful’?”</p>
<p>Kylo pauses, his eyes moving slowly along the span of your face until they reach yours.</p>
<p>“That sounds right.” <br/>“Okay,” you smile, gesturing to his parchment. “I want you to write it down. I’ll spell it for you, okay? Do you know the alphabet?”</p>
<p>He nods, readying himself, pen in hand. </p>
<p>“B-E-A-U-T-I-F-U-L.” </p>
<p>You watch as the ink sinks into the paper, and you’re struck by how elegant, how delicate his penmanship is.</p>
<p>“You have exquisite handwriting,” you breathe, unknowingly inching slightly closer to better see the page. Kylo doesn’t move away, doesn’t flinch as your robes brush the back of the chair, and though you don’t notice, his eyes flutter slightly shut. </p>
<p>He hums for a moment before speaking. </p>
<p>“I don’t know what that means,” he says quietly. <br/>“Exquisite?” <br/>“Yes, that word is new.”<br/>“I suppose it’s kind of like ‘beautiful’, in a way. It means strikingly, intensely beautiful.”<br/>“I like that word better,” he says confidently. “How do you spell it?” <br/>“E-X-Q-U-I-S-I-T-E.” </p>
<p>You watch his wrist flick across the paper, and it bewilders you, the intricacies of his soul. How deftly he creates such graceful swirls across the surface of a material so benign before he touched it. Perhaps, you think, there is a somewhat clear and obvious reason as to why such a contradictory character, celestial yet hellish in nature, can come to exist. </p>
<p><em> An angel, </em> you think. A valorous warrior, though tainted with a cruel and merciless streak. An ethereal and gentle spirit, now locked away in a perpetual quiescent state. </p>
<p>
  <em> Yes, an angel. He must be.  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> * </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When Kylo Ren lays his head down among silk pillows that night, he tells himself he’s not a coward. That he doesn’t leave - though he <em> can, </em> though he <em> could </em> - because he doesn’t <em> want </em> to. He wants to stay, wants to rule. He tells himself that. On his good days, he believes it. </p>
<p>On his bad days, like today, he falters. He questions. He speculates. Wonders of what could have been, ponders a life outside of the confines of The First Order. A life away from Snoke. A life where he was <em> Ben </em>. </p>
<p>He’s conscious of that identity, of its existence. Of how it hangs around him, loosely swinging through the air as he moves. Like a phantom limb that he <em> knows </em> was there, but is no longer his. No longer part of him. Ben perished somewhere, somehow, though he can’t quite discern where, when or how. </p>
<p>He likes to think of who he could have been. Someone like Poe, perhaps, who can make people laugh. He thinks that’s who he’d like to have been. And when he thinks of that distant, delicate version of himself, he thinks of the colour blue. Because he’s known, really, all along, that Kylo Ren was only a facade. A decoy. And now he knows what lies beneath the mask, what was buried underneath beatings upon beatings that ravished his skin every time he dared to ask where he came from. And now he buries it again. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Kylo’s rejection of his identity doesn’t come as a shock to you. You watch him, how his eyes move behind their lids as he’s coaxed into a land far freer than his own. You feel the darkness roll off him, sometimes, as he sleeps. Can feel it nibble at your insides as he weaves in and out of nightmares of his own. You feared it, once, that calamity that churns like a hurricane inside of him. But you’re determined to venture deeper, straight down into the eye of the raging storm to find the light you know is there. The light you so often feel radiate from him, the light you’re pulled to, like a flower opening to the sun. </p>
<p>And you forget, really, how much of your own darkness you’ve submerged down deep in an ocean of falsified light, stuck there like an anchor underneath the glittering waves of your false sense of heroism. Because you’re not a hero. Nor will you ever be. Not as long as you feel this pull. Not as long as this cycle of efflorescence continues, your soul allowing his to dissolve into your every orifice, captivating every cell in your body, commanding they be <em> his </em>. </p>
<p>And you realise now, that whether he knows it or not - in a way, you <em> are </em>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">come say hello on tumblr, if you'd like!</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter Seventeen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I know, I can't believe I'm updating again, either. </p>
<p><b>I want to preface this chapter with this:</b> as an abuse and trauma survivor myself, I spent a long period of time in life being severely touch avoidant. And though I still am to a degree, things got better, and I gradually broke free of that fear. How Kylo's fear of touch and how he navigates it in this story is heavily based on my own experience (because everyone's is different, and trying to gauge someone else's can be tough) - so this chapter has been handled with as much care as I could give it (and him). I just wanted to make that clear, lest anyone think I didn't empathise or care. Kylo is in control here, and this moment is his. </p>
<p>In less pressing matters: listen. I just love making stuff up about a dyad, because it was so poorly explored in canon. I just love diving right into the intensity of it. And as much as I hate to say it, Snoke <i>does</i> know what he's talking about sometimes, despite his rotten intentions.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Your ceremony tomorrow is fast approaching,” Snoke says, discoloured nails idly tapping against the armrest of his throne. “How are you feeling?” </p>
<p>Kylo hesitates. Because he doesn’t know. Of <em> course </em> he doesn’t. </p>
<p>“I don’t know, sir,” he murmurs, shifting his weight slightly. It hurts, kneeling like this on the hard floor of the throne room. “I’m not sure I understand the point of the ceremony.” </p>
<p>“It’s to bind you,” Snoke smiles, that sly kind of grin that leaves one contemplating the bearer's true intentions. “To bring you together in matrimony. To show the world that she is <em> yours </em>.” </p>
<p>Kylo swallows. <em> His </em>. </p>
<p>“Son, let me ask you something,” Snoke’s tone drops an octave, and it commands Kylo’s full attention. He straightens his back, nervously training his eyes expectantly on his Leader. “Have you touched her?”</p>
<p>“T-touch?” <br/>“Yes, have you touched her? Have you felt her skin, have you held her hair?” <br/>“N-no, sir,” he stammers. “I help her up from the floor at training, because she sits a-and watches. But that’s all.”<br/>“Do you want to?” <br/>“I-I…” He trails off. “I don’t understand, sir.” <br/>“Do you think of touching her? Do you think of how soft her skin may feel, how smooth it would be under your fingertips?” </p>
<p>Kylo’s face flushes hot, and he can feel it, the shame, the guilt as it gushes across his skin and paints it pink. The humiliation, the debasement of what it is to be human, to be a man, to be in <em> love </em> , showing clearly on his pale features. Because of course he thinks of it, with wet hair matted to his forehead pressed against the cool tile of the shower. He thinks of it at his desk each morning, as he watches you drag yourself from the comfort of slumber - so softly, so slowly, so gracefully. He thinks of it when the Knight’s curl their filthy fingers around your arm, squeezing too tight against your delicate skin. He thinks of it at the dinner table, when Snoke raises his voice. He thinks of it. <em> Always </em>. </p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” he mumbles, head bowing in disgrace. “I do.” <br/>“Why haven’t you? She’s yours, you do as you please with her.” </p>
<p>Kylo doesn’t answer, doesn’t think he should. Doesn’t quite think he wants to allow Snoke access to yet another shortcoming, another flaw in his structure. </p>
<p>“Answer me, boy!” Snoke barks, fist falling heavy against the wooden armrest. </p>
<p>“W-what if she doesn’t want me to touch her, sir?” Kylo settles on a half-truth, a worry he of course has, but doesn’t dwell on half as much as his own internal anguish that, despite his best efforts, is never quelled. </p>
<p>Snoke hums. </p>
<p>“She seems terribly fond of you, son,” he says, leaning forward slightly in his seat. “And she loves you. So I <em> highly </em> doubt she’d object.” <br/>“Love,” Kylo repeats. “You told me that I’d know it when I felt it.” <br/>“I did.” <br/>“I think that I do, sir.” <br/>“I know you do,” Snoke huffs a laugh. “Of course you do. Do you want to know why?”<br/>“Why, sir?”</p>
<p>“Because your souls are bridged,” he smiles sickly as he speaks. “Bonded. <em> Bound </em> . Your souls are so intertwined, that it will trigger a love far stronger than any man could ever know,” he leans back in his seat, clasping his hands over his stomach. “And <em> fast </em>, because a connection of the soul won’t wait for your mind to catch up, son.” </p>
<p>“I don’t think that she feels that, sir,” Kylo shakes his head solemnly. “I-I think, I think it’s just me.”<br/>“She does, son,” Snoke nods. “She’s simply not quite understood it yet. But she does," He offers Kylo a rare, sympathetic expression, one Kylo clings to like a child does their father’s hand. <br/>“Thank you, Supreme Leader,” Kylo gets to his feet. “For your wisdom.” </p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>You settle in beneath the covers, feet rubbing together to generate warmth. You wonder if they’ll ever give you warmer clothes, or a warmer room. <em> It wouldn’t kill them to, surely </em> , you think. <em> I bet Snoke doesn’t sleep in the cold </em>. </p>
<p>Kylo slides in slowly beside you. He’s been oddly silent since returning from his meeting with the Supreme Leader, and your heart aches as you hope he hasn't been beaten.</p>
<p>“You’ve been quiet,” you murmur, your eyes falling shut for a moment as you relish in the warmth of his body heat. He lays so close to you now that you can feel it radiate from his skin to yours, his very aura touching your goosebumped arms. “I mean, you’re always quiet, but more so today.” </p>
<p>“Is it okay to want to touch someone?” The words sprout without much thought, and immediately, he regrets speaking at all. </p>
<p>Because really, he’s still hesitant, still distrustful of Snoke’s words. He doesn’t understand how it could possibly be acceptable to touch you, not when he feels such utter contempt for himself each and every time he craves it. And oh, how he <em> craves </em> it, how he aches for it. </p>
<p>But Kylo is adept, highly capable of seeing through Snoke’s facade, through his distorted portrayal of care, even when he desires nothing more than to just follow him blindly. Because wouldn’t that be easier? Kylo certainly thinks it would be. </p>
<p>You’re taken aback by his question, and you take a moment to formulate a response. He’s patient, though. Waits silently as you think. </p>
<p>“I mean, it depends on how you want to touch them, Kylo, and who you want to touch.”<br/>“How do you mean?”<br/>“Well, for argument's sake, let’s say you wanted to hit a child. That form of touch <em> isn’t </em> okay.” <br/>“N-no, no,” he shakes his head ardently. “T-that’s not the touching I mean.” <br/>“Well, what <em> do </em> you mean?” <br/>“I-I want to know what kind of touch <em> is </em> okay. And if it’s okay to want it.” <br/>“Affection, do you remember that word?”</p>
<p>Kylo nods, “I do.” <br/>“That kind of touch, that’s okay. That’s a good kind of touch, and it’s absolutely okay to want it.” </p>
<p>Kylo breathes a heavy sigh of relief, and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him so at ease. </p>
<p>“Did you think it was wrong to want that, Kylo?”<br/>“Yes,” he sighs deeply. “I thought...I thought it was wrong.” <br/>“Why did you think that?” <br/>“It made me feel ashamed.”<br/>“Ashamed that you wanted to experience affection?” </p>
<p>Kylo nods. </p>
<p>“Kylo, from now on, I don’t want you to <em> ever </em> feel like it’s wrong to want that. You <em> need </em> it. Humans need it.” </p>
<p>He watches in a suspended sense of adoration as you speak. How gentle you are with him, how careful, how compassionate. You are to him what no one else has ever been, and he’ll covet you, yearn for you in ways he knows well that he’ll never quite understand. But how he wishes he could think of something beautiful, something to which he could liken your light. But his only sense of beauty, his only sense of grace - it’s you, and you alone. </p>
<p>He breathes your name in question, and you can feel it, the palpable glow of something gorgeous, something ethereal rolling slowly from his being to yours. You don’t answer him, you don’t respond at all, because you know what’s coming, you hear his words echo softly through your mind before they even leave his mouth. </p>
<p>“Can I touch you?” </p>
<p>You’re positive, absolutely <em> certain </em> , that you’d never been stunned into complete silence before. At least, not like this. Because words won’t come, noise won’t come. Your throat tightens, and you struggle to swallow as your heart rate increases sharply. The <em> thud, thud, thud </em> of it hammers against your ribcage, and you wonder, only for a moment, if the speed of it should be a cause of concern. You want to speak, you want to ask him - <em> Do you really want to? Don’t do this if you think you have to. Don’t do this if you’re uncomfortable, don’t </em> -</p>
<p>“I <em> want </em> to,” he murmurs, his voice so soft, almost muted, you barely register it over the sound of your own thoughts. “I really want to, b-but only if you want me to.”  </p>
<p>“Okay,” you croak hoarsely, and your throat feels like sandpaper as you speak. “You can touch me,” You nod, and you don’t register that you’re trembling, or that his hand shakes when it reaches out. The anticipation of it, of how you so carefully follow his movement with bated breath, has your whole body charged. His eyes are trained on your skin, so focused on you that he’s sure there’s nothing else in this room - no desk, no chair, not even the bed you lay on. There’s only you. </p>
<p>When his fingertips finally make contact with your face, you unsteadily let out the breath you’d been holding. He drags the pads of them along your cheek, across your jaw, watching the skin underneath his own fingers in awe. </p>
<p>“You’re so soft,” he breathes, moving the path of his fingers upward, toward your hairline. His fingers rest against your forehead, and his eyes flick down to yours in question. </p>
<p>“Can I please touch your hair?” </p>
<p>You nod again, and he moves his hand forward, gently feeling how the strands tickle his skin, how they feel between his fingers. </p>
<p>He’s confident, absolutely sure, that he’ll never lay his eyes on anything, on <em> anyone </em>, that will spark such a reaction in his body, in his soul. Because you do. And it’s cataclysmic, the way his soul shifts when he touches you, like a seismic plate jolting the world itself. He’d stay like this, glued to you, for as long as they’d let him.</p>
<p><br/>And when you fall asleep like that, with his hand encompassing the side of your face, Kylo Ren feels <em> peace </em>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">come say hello on tumblr, if you'd like!</a>
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        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter Eighteen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“If you...If you had a choice, would you choose this?” He watches your expression change. He can’t quite read it. <i>Would you choose me? </i></p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is fairly dialogue heavy, and is mostly relationship building. I just wanted them to <i>talk</i> before the ceremony, you know? Let them connect, let them have some peace. </p>
<p>Somehow, though, it ended up at over 2,700 words so for that, I am truly sorry. They just really wanted to connect, I guess, all of this just came tumbling out of me, lol.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You wake suddenly to a hand on your shoulder, softly dragging back and forth. </p>
<p>“You have to wake up,” his voice doesn’t quite sound real, your mind still half asleep. “It’s our ceremony today.” </p>
<p>“Hm?” You blink the sleep from your eyes, bringing your left hand up to drag across your face. Kylo usually lets you wake up on your own, doesn’t stir you from your dreams. Your nose scrunches frustration and your eyes screw shut - you’re <em> tired </em> (from what, you couldn’t even tell yourself) and you huff softly that you want to go back to sleep. You think - you <em> think </em> - you hear Kylo chuckle softly, but you can’t tell if you’re still dreaming or not. </p>
<p>“You can’t, the ceremony is important.” </p>
<p>You groan.</p>
<p>“That’s today?”</p>
<p>Kylo doesn’t move his hand, keeps it right there on your bare shoulder - an anchor to reality as you glide back to the surface from your slumber. </p>
<p>“It is.”<br/>“Why didn’t you tell me?” You open one eye, brows furrowing. <br/>“I thought I did,” Kylo says, an air of panic to his tone. “Didn’t I? Yesterday?”<br/>“Maybe you just thought you did,” you sigh. “It doesn’t really matter, I guess. It’s not like I have a choice.” </p>
<p>A fleeting pang of something like rejection hits him then, and you feel it, right in your centre. His emotions ebb their way through you regularly now. Kylo tells you it’s because you’re opening up - slowly, bit by bit. If you are, you aren’t doing so consciously. </p>
<p>“I mean,” you rush, and you think he’s going to retreat, take his touch away, but he doesn’t. “Wouldn’t you <em> want </em> a choice?”</p>
<p>“I’ve never had a choice,” he murmurs, his thumb moving delicately across your skin. He’s mesmerizing himself with the movement, relishing in the softness beneath his fingertips. He’s running through words in his mind, and you can hear them as they flit past - <em> nice, pretty, beautiful, exquisite. No </em>. None of the adjectives can articulate what he wants to say - not to you, simply to himself. To archive this moment, this feeling, among many more he has safely and carefully filed away. His frustration fizzles out as soon as it sparks. He finds it hard to be angry, even with himself, in moments such as these. And though he hasn’t found many of them - these minute slivers of solace - he basks in their light each time he’s fortunate enough to experience them. </p>
<p>His eyes stay stuck to your shoulder, unmoving as he speaks. “But even if I did, I don’t think I’d change anything.” </p>
<p>“About what?”<br/>“About this.”<br/>“The Order?”<br/>“About <em> you </em> ,”  his gaze flicks to meet yours. “About the ceremony.” <br/>“Kylo, do you really understand what the ceremony means?” </p>
<p>“Yes,” he affirms, and he can feel it - your doubt, how logic has come knocking on your skull, demanding you hear it. But Kylo wants you to hear <em> him </em> . “Our souls are bound forever, we both know that. We both know we can’t <em> change </em> that,” he pauses for a moment, forcibly changing his direction of thought. Though his words are true, he hears Snoke in his tone. Hears the manipulation in his voice and <em> loathes </em> it, because he knows what Snoke does to him. He’s astute enough to discern as much. And he <em> meant </em> it when he said he wasn’t cut from the same cloth. </p>
<p>Besides, that’s not what he wants to say, not really. For so many years, he’d let Snoke choose his words, his very thoughts. He still struggles to find his own voice. Or what he has left of it. </p>
<p>“If you had a choice, what would you choose?” <br/>“What am I choosing between?” </p>
<p>Kylo realises then that he doesn’t even know what he’s asked of you, has no idea what question he’d tried to articulate. He knows what he wants to ask, but again, words fail him. He struggles with that, sometimes. Knowing all of the words he needs is often no use. It’s structuring the sentence that can really hinder him. He has spent so many days, months, <em> years </em> in a state only a hair away from silence. Since he’s met you, he’s spoken more than he thinks he ever has. </p>
<p>He hesitates, chewing at the inside of his cheek again. You wonder if he’s ever given himself ulcers from how often he does it. </p>
<p>“If you...If you had a choice, would you choose <em> this </em> ?” He watches your expression change. He can’t quite read it. <em> Would you choose me </em>? </p>
<p>You sit up slightly, and he doesn’t press down on your shoulder to cause resistance. Instead, he simply shifts his hand, so it sits comfortably atop it. </p>
<p>“What part of this?”</p>
<p>Kylo doesn’t answer you, though the sincere, unspoken words of his question are quite clear. It gives you pause. Because really, you’d never much thought about being bound to <em> anyone </em> . You’d navigated your way through life with little thought of what man you’d end up with - something you so often got berated for by your parents and friends alike. It simply hadn’t occurred to you, it simply wasn’t a train of thought you followed. And you realise now, as you look up at him - molten honey eyes, soft as ever - that really, Kylo hadn’t thought of it either. But now here you both are, faced with each other, and you’re forced to acknowledge all of the things you pushed away. You <em> know </em> what Kylo’s really asking you. You know he’s desperate to crack the walls of your exterior, to get inside your head like you have his. Desperate to know the only secret you’ve still managed to keep. And surely, he should <em> know </em> , he should <em> feel </em> it - how he has accessed you in a way that no one else ever could. How he’s crawled right into your soul and made a home, how he’s managed to encompass you completely, cerebrally, in such a short space of time that you can’t quite fathom how it could possibly be. Surely, he should know that no one else, nothing else, will ever compare to <em> this </em>. </p>
<p>“I mean…” you trail off for a moment, fixing your eyes to the point where his arm extends to reach you. “Y-yeah. I think I would,” the words come out quieter than you’d anticipated, and the nervous shake that rolls through you pushes you to force a laugh. “I-I think if I had a choice, though, I’d have wanted to, y’know, date you before marrying you.” </p>
<p>“Date?” <br/>“Oh,” you shake your head, more at yourself for even expecting him to understand your reference. “It’s a thing people do, outside.”<br/>“What is it?”<br/>“Well, if two people, y’know. Like or love each other or whatever, they go out and do things. They spend time with each other for a while before they get married.” <br/>“Isn’t that what we do?” he asks, and his question is so genuine that you could almost weep. “We spend a lot of time together, even in here.” </p>
<p>His fingers slide up your neck until they reach your temple. Though you know it’s not a sexual manner of touch on his part - because you can <em> feel </em> how it pulsates through his veins, an intrinsic need just to feel you in the most innocent type of way. Because you’re <em> you </em>, and you’re right there, and you’ve allowed him this. You’ve allowed him a freedom he never imagined, certainly not from within the strict measurements of his captivity. Still, though, it sends goosebumps rushing to the surface of your skin. He watches curiously as they form beneath his touch. </p>
<p>“Yeah,” you breathe. “I guess we do.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>You find a benign kind of comfort in watching him at his desk. How his foot taps rhythmically against the creaking wood - as though in time to a beat or a song. You wonder if he’s ever heard music. If he’s ever heard someone sing, or hum, or if he’s ever sang to himself. You wonder if he even knows <em> how </em>.  </p>
<p>There’s a thud on the door that sends you right out of your skin. You know it’s Vicrul. You asked him to knock. Though less for your privacy (because really, you don’t do much) and more to give Kylo the feigned sense of authority carried by a simple action such as opening a door. </p>
<p>“Your ceremony robes,” Vicrul says to you as Kylo lets him into the room. “You’re not to let him see you in them,” he gestures to the bag that he’s laid on the bed, next to where you sit. “I’ll be back for you at noon, Ren.” </p>
<p>“Why is he separating us?” Kylo questions, folding his arms across his chest. It’s an action he rarely does. <br/>“I dunno,” Vicrul grunts as Trudgen peers around the doorframe. “They’re my orders, we stick to them.” <br/>“Gotta go,” Trudgen grunts. “You said you’d be quick.”<br/>“I’m being quick.”<br/>“He’s <em> being </em> quick, Trudgen,” Kylo repeats, and you admire this, his new sense of dominion. Something has shifted in him, something is different. </p>
<p>“Noon,” Vicrul repeats, despite Kylo having no concept of time without a window to see the sky. He hasn’t known time since he was a boy, since they took his stars away. Now, he simply relies on the Knights. It’s noon when they say it’s noon. </p>
<p>“How do you tell them apart?” You ask as Kylo shuts the door and sits back down at his desk. <br/>“Who?”<br/>“The Knights.”<br/>“I thought you could?”<br/>“Only Vicrul.” </p>
<p>Kylo hums. <br/>“They used to wear masks,” he says quietly. “So I couldn’t see their faces. They only stopped wearing them recently.”<br/>“Why?”<br/>“I don’t know, I don’t ask,” he shakes his head. “I’ve always known Cardo though because he’s bigger than the others, and rougher. We don’t get along.”<br/>“So I’ve noticed.”<br/>“I can tell them apart now by their mouths,” he doesn’t look up from his paper. “But I don’t really care what they look like.” <br/>“Fair enough,” you sit down on the bed, timidly attempting to peer into the bag that sits beside you. The connotations of such a mundane thing sends your stomach churning into knots. <br/>“Why won’t they let me see you?” he still doesn’t look up from his paper. “I don’t understand.”</p>
<p>“In weddings, y’know, outside, the bride doesn’t see the groom before the wedding. It’s bad luck for him to see her in her wedding dress.”<br/>“What’s a bride? And what’s a groom?” Only now does he turn to face you, as he always seems to do when he asks you awkward questions. <br/>“Well, in this situation,” you sigh. “I’m the bride, you’re the groom.”<br/>“So, the people who are bound.”</p>
<p>“Mhm,” you peer into the bag again, but can’t make out what’s inside. It’s filled with delicate tissue paper, and you can tell it was bought from the highstreet. You wonder if that’s where Brendol has been. He’s been gone ‘on business’ since you arrived. “I’m your bride, you’re my groom.” </p>
<p>“My <em> bride </em>,” Kylo repeats, and you look up. He’s turned back to his work, whatever it is, and you hear the words tumble around his mind in an endless cycle, processing the meaning. He doesn’t grasp the weight of it, though. Doesn’t grasp the importance of what it is to be a groom, far less a husband. Part of you is glad for it. His innocent optimism is a beacon amid a situation that really, should be quite dark. </p>
<p>“Why is it dark?”</p>
<p>You wish he wouldn’t do that. </p>
<p>“We’re going to have to talk about that.”<br/>"About what?”<br/>“About you doing that, reading my thoughts. I don’t like it,” you sigh. “I thought you said you wouldn’t because it would hurt me?”<br/>“Well, that’s what I thought at <em> first </em> ,” he turns around to face you again. “Because I hurt everyone else when I did that. But I’m not doing it with you.” <br/>“Yes you are, you just <em> did </em> .” <br/>“I don’t have to do it in the same way, I mean,” he’s trying to find the words again, and his knee bounces under the desk. “Yours started to flow to me. From your mind to mine. I can’t help it.” <br/>“Oh,” you sit up straight. “Then why can’t I hear yours?”<br/>“You can’t?”<br/>“No, not always,” you shake your head. “I can hear you sometimes. And I can feel what you feel sometimes, too. But clearly not as often as you can.” </p>
<p>Kylo hums. </p>
<p>“Maybe it’s because you’re not fully letting me in,” he turns his back to you. “You only <em> really </em> let me in when you’re asleep.” <br/>“Is that how you get into my dreams?”<br/>“Yes,” his leg suddenly stops its incessant movement, and he looks to you from over his shoulder. “I-if you don’t want me to be there, I won’t...I won’t go in. It’s just that I feel your fear, and I don’t like it.”<br/>“Don’t like feeling my fear?”<br/>“No,” he shakes his head sternly. “I don’t like knowing you’re afraid. I don’t want you to be afraid.” <br/>“The dreams can’t hurt me, Kylo,” you smile at him softly, and his heart races under his thin day robes. <br/>“I-I know that,” he chews at his cheek again. “Do you want me to stop?” <br/>“No,” and you mean it, and you hope that he feels it. “I don’t want you to stop.” </p>
<p>You fall into a comfortable silence, and you lay back among the silk. The scratch of his pen lulls you into state so still, you almost feel like you’re floating. </p>
<p>“What’s a therapist?” </p>
<p>You start, and look up at him, surprised. <br/>“Where’d you learn that word?” </p>
<p>He doesn’t look up, nor does he turn to face you. He never does when you want him to.<br/>“Your head. You thought that I needed one. What is it?”<br/>“I wish you wouldn’t go rooting around like that”<br/>“Rooting?”<br/>“Digging for things.” </p>
<p>“What’s a therapist?” He asks again, ignoring your statement. He’s been scolded once for such behaviour today already, and like a relentless, moody teenager, has decided once is not enough. </p>
<p>“It’s someone...someone you can talk to who is trained to listen and understand. And help you.”<br/>“You do those things. Why can’t I just talk to you?” <br/>“Because I can’t help you like they can,” you say softly. “And it’s important that you talk to someone, at <em> least </em> one person, who isn’t me.” Because realistically, Kylo doesn’t strike you as the type of man to befriend many. <br/>“I don’t think I need help, and even if I did,” his knee bounces again. “I’d rather it be you.”<br/>“You still <em> can </em> talk to me, about anything you want, I promise,” and you mean it, you do. “But we all need help, even just a little bit. A therapist can help you navigate the things in your mind better than I can.”<br/>“I doubt that.”<br/>“Don’t doubt what you don’t know.” </p>
<p>He’s silent for a moment, and for once, he thinks of the implications of what he’s about to say. He worries, often, actually, that he’ll say something one day that will truly upset you. Because really, he doesn’t often realise that there are ways in which to express himself that don’t have to be impulsively speaking without thought. Regardless, he speaks, finally turning to face you. </p>
<p>“You doubted <em> me </em> ,” he’s firm in his tone, confident that he wants to say this, to address this. “You doubted me before you knew me.” <br/>And you know he’s right. You do. But you ask, anyway.<br/>“In what way?” <br/>“You were afraid of me,” he murmurs. “You thought I was like Leader Snoke, I could hear it in your mind when you were scared that night. You didn’t think I could be anything else. You didn’t think I could be...this.” </p>
<p>You’re aware - acutely so - of the danger, the <em> power </em> Kylo can wield. It’s something you don’t have to see to understand, to know. You simply feel it roll off him, steady and simmering. And it <em> did </em> scare you. But that was before. Before he’d so tenderly waded through the plains of your own consciousness, before his soul had begged yours to bare itself to him. </p>
<p>“I know, and I’m sorry,” and you are. “I was wrong.” </p>
<p>Kylo offers you the faintest glimmer of a smile, if it can even be perceived as such.</p>
<p>He’ll forget what you said about therapy. He’ll forget that the way the candlelight flickers over his paper, illuminating words he’s proud to have written. But this, he’ll commit to memory. Because for the first time in his life, he feels seen. For the first time in his life, he feels like himself. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">come say hi on tumblr!</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter Nineteen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I mean, at the end of the day, this is still a fantastical love story with a few bumps along the way. I can only hope this somewhat comes a little bit close to your expectations of this chapter. It might not meet all of them, but I did what felt right for Kylo. </p>
<p><b>In case you missed it,</b> there's an add on piece that links to The Cultist, inspired by a lovely anon on tumblr. You can find that <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27255544">here!</a>. Feel free to come chat to me on tumblr, if you ever have any ideas such as the one that inspired Tiny Raindrop, it may turn into something we can add to this fic in a side story. As always, the link to my blog is at the end of this chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kylo is belligerent when they come to take him. This new dominion he possesses, you realise, isn’t new at all. It’s simply awakening. A revival of something ominous that has always been there, always simmering beneath the surface. You’ve simply never bore witness to it. </p>
<p>“You can’t separate us,” he barks, Trudgen reaching for his elbow. Kylo yanks it back in a show of refusal, an audacious action you’ve never seen him dare to do. “I’m not leaving her.” <br/>
“It doesn’t seem to me like you have a choice,” Trudgen attempts to seize him again, and Kylo steps back. “I’m <em> warning </em> you, Ren.”  </p>
<p>Kylo’s breathing becomes unsteady - his chest heaves and he gulps violently for air, and you realise now that he’s <em> panicking </em>. </p>
<p>“Stop!” You leap from your position on the bed, wedging yourself between Trudgen and Kylo. You turn your back to the Knight, and you tilt your head in an attempt to catch Kylo’s gaze. His head is bowed, his hair falling over his eyes. “Kylo? Can you look at me?” </p>
<p>He does, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. They’re glassy, frenzied, and he struggles to keep his stare on you - every minute movement the Knight’s make catch his attention. </p>
<p>“C-can I-” <br/>
“Yes,” you cut him off. “Of course.” </p>
<p>His hands grab for you, landing on your arms, your shoulders, your wrists. He holds onto your hand, holding it to his chest as a child would a comfort blanket. An image - familiar to you, yet forgeign to him, flashes through your mind and he sees it. He doesn’t have time to question it, though. Not now. </p>
<p>“Y-you can’t take her from me,” he manages shakily through gritted teeth. “You <em> can’t </em>.” <br/>
“Kylo,” you steal his attention away from the Knight’s once more. “It won’t be for long, I promise.” <br/>
“I don’t <em> want </em> to,” there’s a subtle whine to his voice. “I don’t want to be apart.” <br/>
“I know,” you keep your voice low, calm, steady. “I don’t want to either, but when you see me again, it’ll be at the ceremony. You’ve been looking forward to that, haven’t you?”</p>
<p>He nods subtly. </p>
<p>“It won’t be for long,” you repeat. “But it will be worth it, won’t it?” </p>
<p>He nods again, and he leans down to press his forehead to yours, his hand still gripping yours tightly. His other hand rests on your back, keeping you close to him, keeping you <em> with </em> him. He’s touching you more in this moment than he ever has, and you can feel the relief that ripples through him from the contact. You can feel his restless soul, and how it settles as your skin meets his. </p>
<p>“And you know what?” You murmur, and you watch as his eyes flutter open at your words. “You’ll still be with me in here,” you press into his forehead a little firmer. “Even when we’re apart.” </p>
<p>He squeezes your hand in recognition. </p>
<p>“Ren,” a voice, deeper, heavier than the others rings through the room. “<em>Now </em>.” <br/>
“Cardo,” Vicrul hisses. “He’s <em> coming </em>.”<br/>
“He’s not, he’s still standing there,” Cardo grunts, lunging forward and tearing you from Kylo’s grasp, shoving you to the side. “Useless, as always.” <br/>
“Don’t-” Kylo pummels against him as Cardo grapples with him. “Don’t touch her.”<br/>
“I just did,” he sneers. “What are you gonna do about it, Ren?” </p>
<p>Kylo thrashes violently, grunting in frustration - though Cardo doesn’t match him in height, he doubles him in width and weight. You know, really, what Kylo is capable of. And you wonder - often - why he doesn’t put his power to use. </p>
<p>“And <em> you</em>,” Cardo says pointedly to you as he steers Kylo toward the door. “Get into your robes.”</p>
<p>You watch as Kylo is dragged from you, and you feel the distress, the hysterical panic that only continues to rise within him. To think that his whole life, the only touch he’d ever known had been like this - well, it just <em> shatters </em> you. His idea of normality, his construct of reality was so far removed from what it should be, and you <em> ache</em>. You ache with the thought of a soul so strong, a creature so powerful, beaten and twisted into subservience.</p>
<p><em> He shouldn’t be serving them</em>, you think. <em> They should be serving him. </em> </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p>The dress isn’t at all what you expected. </p>
<p>It’s not white, like you thought - and though you’d never admit it, like you <em> wanted </em>. It’s black - because of course it is - made of silk and lace. It ties in ribbons around the back, almost as a corset would, and you’ve been struggling for the better part of twenty minutes to tie them yourself. Why they’d left you alone to tie such a difficult garment is beyond you. </p>
<p><em> Fucking imbeciles </em>, you think, straining to reach around and tie the bow. Just as you finally secure it in place, there’s a knock at the door. </p>
<p>“Yes?” </p>
<p>The door cracks open, and a timid Armitage Hux peers around the frame. </p>
<p>“My Lady, I’ve been sent to retrieve you.” <br/>
“Oh,” you spin around to face him. “I was expecting Vicrul.”<br/>
“I know,” he’s flustered, his pale skin blushing as he speaks. You wonder how many girls he’s ever seen before. “But the Knights are needed to contain Ren, so they sent me.”<br/>
“How is he?”<br/>
Over the past hour, you've felt him several times. He pulls at the strings that bind you, tugging at them until he feels you respond. He'll settle, then. You know, really, that he simply needs to feel that you're still there.</p>
<p>“He’ll be fine, my Lady,” he opens the door wider. “We really must get going. Are you ready?” <br/>
“Um,” you take a final glance around the room, realising that really, there’s nothing to take with you. No purse, no phone, no nothing. “Yeah, I guess I am.” </p>
<p>He holds the door open for you, watching as you walk past him into the fluorescent light of the corridor. It always takes you several seconds to adjust to the assaulting glare of the lights. </p>
<p>“My lady,” he starts, unsure of himself. “Your bow, it’s crooked.” </p>
<p>You frown. </p>
<p>“I know, but it was hard to tie it by myself.” <br/>
“The Supreme Leader will notice.”<br/>
“Then let him,” you sigh. “If he wants to be pedantic then he can be my guest.” <br/>
“Fair enough, my Lady,” he murmurs, holding his arm out to you. You take it, linking your elbow with his. <br/>
“I have a question, Armitage,” you say as you walk through the empty corridors. You already know you’re heading for the throne room. <br/>
“Yes?”<br/>
“Kylo said the Knights used to wear masks but don’t anymore, he doesn’t know why.” </p>
<p>Armitage hums. </p>
<p>“He says the change is recent.” <br/>
“That it is,” he says. “It was my doing.”<br/>
“Why?”<br/>
“Leader Snoke was preparing for your arrival,” you turn a corner, and the throne room is in sight now. The heavy wooden doors stand looming at the end of the corridor. “I assumed you’d be terrified enough as it was. There was no need to scare you further with six large men in masks.”<br/>
“Am I supposed to thank you?” You scoff, and you don’t catch his smirk.<br/>
“No, it was less for your benefit and more for the Leader,” You come to a halt at the doorway. “If you were terrified, you’d be far more difficult for both him and Ren to handle.”<br/>
“How kind.”</p>
<p>Hux knocks once on the door, then turns to observe you. </p>
<p>“Are you ready, my Lady?” </p>
<p>You shift, the dress is uncomfortable and scratches at your skin - lace always does. You breathe deeply. </p>
<p>“I suppose.” </p>
<p>And it happens so fast, you’re not sure that you register it. The doors swing open, and he’s there, at the top of the room, waiting for you. In a suit nonetheless, and you can tell by how he’s standing that he’s never worn anything made of such fabric, or with so many complicated adornments. And when he turns, when he sees you - his <em> face </em> . You knew, growing up, when you watched all of those rom-coms, that you’d always wanted to experience a moment like this (though you never quite pictured who you’d experience it with). A moment where someone would look at you with so much adoration, so much <em> love </em> , that you yourself could barely stand it. And it infuriates you, in a way, that it’s happening now. You’ve waited all your life for this moment - at least, it feels that way - and you can’t even make it <em> yours</em>, you can’t make it <em> his</em>. Not really. You watch as his mouth parts, how he flushes at the sight of you - dressed up like this, for <em> him.</em> You barely register that you’re moving toward him - though if Armitage wasn’t pulling you, you’re sure you would have remained planted to the spot. </p>
<p>When you finally reach him, your eyes are trained solely on his - the honeyed glow of them lulling you into a sense of security. Because he’s here. You’re fine, everything is <em>fine</em>, as long as he’s here. As long as you're both here. He releases the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, shakily composing himself. </p>
<p>“You’re beautiful,” he breathes, and as he says it, he realises it’s the first time he’s said those words aloud. “Y-you’re <em> so </em> beautiful.” </p>
<p>You feel your face become hot, and bashfully you look down at the floor. It’s been so long since anyone has said such things, but even longer since anyone has really meant it. Since anyone has really <em> seen </em> you, right down to your bones, and still believed it. In fact, you’re not sure anyone else ever has. </p>
<p>“Thank you,” you murmur, and you feel his admiration and how it swells in his chest. <br/>
“You look great, too,” you smile, and Kylo blushes furiously. But he <em> does </em> look good. His hair flows in waves that just fall short of his shoulders, and the Knights have clearly preened and shaved him for the occasion. You think he looks somewhat like a prince. <br/>
“I-I’ve never worn anything like this,” he mumbles, tugging at his cufflinks. “I don’t like it.” </p>
<p>You giggle softly, and Kylo’s eyes come alive with the sound. He’ll never tire of it, he’s sure of that. </p>
<p>And with impeccable timing, Snoke appears, then, standing before you with a sickly grin plastered across his vile features.  </p>
<p>“Now,” his gravelly voice rips you from your moment. “Shall we begin?” </p>
<p>Your eyes dart around the room hurriedly, and you’re relieved that you don’t have an audience. The Knight’s line the walls, and Armitage stands to the left of a larger, burlier man. <em> Brendol </em>. You remember him from the car. </p>
<p>“Ren,” Snoke turns to him. “Take her hands.” </p>
<p>Kylo does, though they’re trembling, and he grips your hands steadily in an attempt to calm you. He does something then, something he hasn’t done before. </p>
<p>
  <em>It will be okay.</em>
</p>
<p>When he speaks, his mouth doesn’t move. But you hear it, and the words reverberate through your skull as though he’s spoken right into your ear.  </p>
<p><em> We will be okay </em>. </p>
<p>Snoke addresses you by his given name, and you grind your teeth in frustration at the sound of it. You hate it, this sense of control he thinks he has over you. You hate the name even more. </p>
<p>“And Kylo Ren, the Chosen One, the future heir of The First Order and the Earth itself, you’re brought here together by the pull of something cosmic. By the pull of the force. By fate. Forevermore will you be bound - through body, mind and soul. And now, by the power vested in me by the Force, by the Maker, I bind you together in matrimony,” Snoke regards you by that name once again, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “Do you accept?” </p>
<p>You swallow thickly, your eyes meeting Kylo’s. The apprehension, the fear that you see there - the fact that he worries in any capacity that you wouldn’t want him, that you wouldn’t <em> accept </em> him, pains you. </p>
<p>“I do,” you nod, squeezing lightly at his hands. He squeezes back, breathing shakily in relief. <br/>
“Kylo Ren, do you accept?” <br/>
“I do,” he nods vigorously, “I-I do.” <br/>
“Very well,” Snoke grins smugly, though you don’t see it. You can’t pull your stare from Kylo, from how he’s looking at you as though you hung the stars itself. He often wonders if you did. <br/>
“You may kiss her, Ren.”</p>
<p>Kylo’s brow furrows. Snoke has been over this with him, has explained to him what to do, but still, he frets. He doesn’t know <em> how </em>. You feel the trepidation, the uncertainty as it rises in him, nearing panic. You think as hard as you can, hoping he can hear it, hoping he can hear you the way you could hear him.</p>
<p>
  <em> You don’t have to.  </em>
</p>
<p><em> I want to, </em>his voice booms through you. <em> I don’t know how</em>. </p>
<p>You squeeze his hands again reassuringly. </p>
<p><em> That’s okay</em>. </p>
<p>Kylo compromises with himself, does what he thinks he <em> can </em> do. Something he craves, and <em>has</em> craved, for longer than he’d care to admit. Because since he first laid eyes on you, crumpled and crying on the floor, it’s all his body could beg him to do. </p>
<p>He leans down, and your eyes widen as you watch him - how his mouth is closer to you now than it's ever been. His lips brush against your cheek and it’s all you can do not to jump right out of your skin with the electricity of the contact. He presses a kiss to your skin with such care, with such delicacy, it's as though he thinks you're made of glass. Of stardust.</p>
<p>“My bride,” he murmurs against your skin. “My wife.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">come say hello on tumblr!</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter Twenty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“C-can I…” Kylo trails off, shifting ever so slightly closer to you. “Can I try?”<br/>“Try what?”<br/>“Wh-what I didn’t do before.” </p>
<p> <i>Can I try to kiss you?</i></p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A shorter chapter today. I was gonna make this chapter angsty and make people suffer but then I thought about Kylo and how badly he just wants to be close to you, and he changed my mind, lol. I hope you enjoy.<br/>Also, <b>in case you missed it</b>, chapter nineteen has been posted into my The Cultist series from Kylo's perspective, and you can find that <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27318238">here</a>! It was requested by a kind soul over on tumblr, so if you have anything regarding this story you'd like to see, feel free to let me know and if it fits, we can turn it into something for everyone to enjoy. I've got a couple more in the works already that I hope you'll enjoy, too.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Back to your quarters,” Snoke says, standing proud and accomplished before you. “There shall be a dinner this evening to celebrate your matrimony. You’ll be fetched when it’s time.” </p>
<p>“Thank you, sir,” Kylo nods obediently, and stands still by your side as the Knight’s approach him. He’s ready, as he always is, to be seized, dragged. <br/>
“No,” Snoke booms, holding a frail palm out toward the Knights. “They’ll walk themselves.” </p>
<p>Trudgen hesitates, looking to his comrades in confusion. </p>
<p>“Sir?” Vicrul steps forward tentatively. “Neither of them have ever walked the corridors alone.” <br/>
“I’m aware,” Snoke turns his gaze to Kylo. “But he’s to be Emperor soon enough. He’s capable. Aren’t you, Ren?” </p>
<p>Kylo hesitates. He’s not sure that he is. He’s not sure what it is that he’s supposed to be capable of. He knows, knows well, that all he’s ever asked for is to be awarded the freedom - the decency - of walking alone. Now that he has it, he’s not sure that he wants it. You squeeze his hand, the one that still encases yours, and he swallows harshly. </p>
<p>“Yes, sir.” </p>
<p>Snoke gestures to you both to leave, and Kylo tugs lightly on your hand to bring you forward. You think - assume, really - that he’ll let go, that he’ll walk by himself, but he doesn’t. His hand stays firmly attached to yours as he guides you out of the throne room. </p>
<p>“Do you know where you’re going?” <br/>
“Not really,” he mutters, “I’m not allowed to look up.” <br/>
“Why’s that?”</p>
<p>Kylo pulls you toward the end of the corridor. He’s eyes rake curiously over the doors, the ceilings. All the mundane, filthy, rotting parts of these hallways that he's never really seen. He squints as the harsh beams of the fluorescent lights assault his eyes. </p>
<p>“I don’t ask questions,” he mutters. “I never get answers, anyway.” </p>
<p>You squeeze his hand again, and he stops suddenly, turning his attention back to you.  </p>
<p>“Thank you,” he says softly, his thumb running across your knuckles. <br/>
“For what?” you tilt your head up at him, your eyes meeting his attentive gaze. The juxtaposition of his size, of his black suit and mighty demeanor, and the way he <em> looks </em> at you, the way his eyes caress you and the way his fingers graze yours as though you’re carved of glass - you’re not sure you’ll ever adjust.</p>
<p>“For wanting me,” he murmurs, his frame crowding yours in a way that, up until now, you hadn't quite expected from him. “For accepting me.” </p>
<p>There’s a weight to his words, one you’re not sure you’ve ever heard before. And really, it frustrates you. Infuriates you, if you’re being honest with yourself. Because Snoke was right. Because this <em>is</em> fate, because this is <em> love </em> - of that, you’re certain. And it <em> shouldn’t </em> be. </p>
<p>But it is. And the consequences are now yours to handle. </p>
<p>“Maybe it <em> is </em> fate that brought me here,” your voice trembles as you speak, and the reality of this - of what you <em> are</em>, of what you <em> have</em>, sets in. “Maybe I’ve always been tied to you.”<br/>
“You have. It’s destiny,” he half-smiles in that way that he does, and his pride surges through your bond. “You’ll be my Empress.” <br/>
“Our destiny is the one thing I think we can change,” your voice drops to a whisper, and you feel him falter - his assurance jilted for only a moment - before he stands straighter. <br/>
“I think you’ll change your mind about that, Empress.” </p><hr/>
<p>When you eventually find your way back to your quarters, you situate yourself atop the silk sheets of your bed. It irritates you - though admittedly only mildly - that there’s nowhere else for you to sit. Kylo hesitates at the foot of the bed, glancing between you and his desk. He chews at the inside of his cheek again, contemplating his options. Kylo finds contentment when he writes at his desk. But Kylo finds heaven itself when he’s with you. </p>
<p>“Can I lay with you?”<br/>
“Of course,” you rest your head among the pillows. “It’s your bed, too.” </p>
<p>When he slides into position beside you, the weight of what he’s about to ask you - of what he’s <em>always</em> wanted to ask you, now that he thinks of it - tears at his chest. His palms sweat slightly at the idea of rejection, the idea of dismissal - because really, Kylo can’t imagine anything worse. </p>
<p>“C-can I…” he trails off, shifting ever so slightly closer to you. “Can I try?” <br/>
“Try what?” <br/>
“Wh-what I didn’t do before.” </p>
<p>
  <em> Can I try to kiss you?  </em>
</p>
<p>You realise now, that the things Kylo won’t say aloud, he’ll whisper through your bond. The question unnerves you, somewhat. Because really, you shouldn’t be doing this. No, you should be <em> saving </em> him. You should be doing something, anything, to get you both out of there. He’s a case number, he’s -</p>
<p>“<em>Stop</em>,” his tone is firm, commanding. “Stop thinking things you don’t mean.” <br/>
“How do you know I don’t mean them?” You frown. <br/>
“I can see the rest of you,” his voice drops an octave, and he reaches up to trail a finger across your temple. You wonder if he has any perception of how innocently sensual he can be. “I know that you crave it, too. And no, I don’t. I don’t know what sensual means.” <br/>
“You don’t have to reply to my every thought.” <br/>
Kylo hums. “But I want to,” he pauses for a moment, running his finger along the side of your face. He revels in this bliss, of how it feels just to touch you. “Do you know how?” </p>
<p>You nod. </p>
<p>Kylo grits his teeth slightly in an unexpected show of jealousy - unexpected by himself most of all. Because he’s never felt this feeling. Not like this. <br/>
“You don’t like that,” you murmur. “That I know how.”<br/>
“I-it’s not that,” he mumbles, distracting himself by dragging his finger down your neck. “It’s that I don’t like that other people touch you. <em> Have </em> touched you.” </p>
<p>Because you’re <em> his </em> and he is <em> yours </em> and no other set of hands, no other human soul, could ever earn the right to glide their fingers across your skin. Kylo isn’t even sure he’s worthy of such a gracious gift. In fact, he <em> knows </em> he’s not. </p>
<p>“Why?”<br/>
“I don’t know,” his finger glides across your collarbones. “I just...I want to be the only one.” <br/>
“You <em> are </em> the only one.” </p>
<p>He swallows, releasing a breath. </p>
<p>“Will you teach me?”<br/>
“Only if you really want me to.”<br/>
“I do,” he murmurs. “<em>Really </em> .” <br/>
“Okay,” your voice comes as a whisper, and your stomach drops right through your body. You don’t think you’ve <em> ever </em> been so nervous, so flustered. Kylo’s brows furrow in confusion as he feels your trepidation churn through him. <br/>
“You’re afraid.”<br/>
“Aren’t you?” </p>
<p>He nods sheepishly, shifting closer to you again. He hadn’t expected you to be afraid - to fear this. It’s <em> you </em> that’s teaching <em> him</em>. And in a way - one he can’t deftly articulate with metaphors such as this - he feels somewhat like a lamb being led to the slaughter. Because he knows, really, deep in his core, that once he tastes you, his thirst for you will never be sated. That this act will intrinsically change him, though he doesn’t quite understand how. </p>
<p>He leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours. He nuzzles against your skin in an act of security so pure that you could <em> weep</em>. A man once afraid to be within a foot of you, now only finds his only solace in the plains of your skin. </p>
<p>“But I still feel safe.” <br/>
“You <em>are</em> safe,” you murmur. “With me.” <br/>
“And you’ll <em> always </em> be safe with me,” he exhales deeply. “I’ll never let anything happen to you, I promise you that.”</p>
<p>His eyes meet yours, and he’s so, <em> so </em> close. His eyes look black, almost. Your breath hitches as his hand moves back across your clavicle. </p>
<p>“I-I don’t know where to put my hands,” his fingers lay gently on your shoulder now, his palm barely touching the skin.<br/>
“Wherever it feels right. Wherever you want,” your voice is barely above a whisper and you can’t help how it shakes. Kylo drags his hand down your shoulder, along your arm and the lace that encases it. His hand settles gingerly on your waist. <br/>
“H-here? I can...I can bring you close to me if I hold you here.” </p>
<p>You nod quickly. “If that’s what you want.”</p>
<p>“It is,” and he does, pulling you forward as his eyes flutter between open and shut. Your bodies press together for the first time, your chest held tightly to his, and Kylo lets out a sigh that is perhaps more primal than contented. His forehead remains against yours, and you don’t think you’ve ever felt so much of a person at once. His body, his skin, his <em> soul </em> all undulating through your being, leaving nothing of you behind but a frail, trembling mess. You whimper at the sensation, and Kylo’s eyes fly open. </p>
<p>“Am I hurting you?”<br/>
“N-no,” you breathe. “No, this is...this is fine. How does it feel?” </p>
<p>He nods against your forehead, bringing you impossibly closer as his legs slot between yours. </p>
<p>“It feels….<em> exquisite</em>.” </p>
<p>You laugh softly. </p>
<p>“It does.” </p>
<p>“Now what do I do?” His breath fans across your lips as he speaks, the sensation only causing you to inch forward. <br/>
“You’re supposed to close your eyes,” you whisper, watching as he obediently lets his eyes fall shut. You contemplate telling him that perhaps, to guide him, you’ll kiss him first. But this feeling - this closeness, this ethereal intimacy that Kylo only wishes he could describe - has him impatient. His impulsivity - and his instinct - does the rest of the work for both of you. </p>
<p>When his lips gently press against yours, you feel as though every organ, every cell in your body has liquified. The tenderness of the movement almost stuns you - how he so carefully pulls your hips closer to his, seemingly without realising. He sighs softly into your mouth, and you’re almost startled when it’s him that first licks at the part of your lips, a quiet plea to meld himself right into you. But he’s gentle, slow, tentative, and you feel dizzy as his free hand comes up to cradle your jaw. He’s enamoured, completely and utterly absorbed in how much of you he can <em> feel</em>. How pliant your mouth is for him, how easily you fit against him. He feels you as you grab at his chest, his arms, and he wonders if anything else in this world could <em> ever </em> feel so good, so <em> right</em>. He moans softly, clutching almost desperately at your waist. </p>
<p><em> I belong here </em>, he sends the thought across your bond with as much concentration as he can manage, all things considered. </p>
<p>And you feel enchanted - bewitched, even - by the way he pulls you in. With such a gentle force, such a divine attachment. You know, then. What you have. </p>
<p>A celestial body, an angelic force. A God. And God himself is yours, and yours alone. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">come say hello on tumblr!</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter Twenty-One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Kylo thinks that, for the first time, he feels happiness - bliss, a sense of euphoria he’ll chase for the rest of his life.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yeah so the angst train is back, I guess. </p>
<p><b>A little PSA</b>: I'm not terribly sure how I'm feeling about writing at the minute. Or at least, how I feel about posting. It's terribly annoying that there's no way to make announcements RE: your fics on this site, but alas. I'm not sure how often updates will be. They may become sporadic, or they may remain frequent. It depends on how I feel, and whether or not I feel like I'm in a mindset to handle the anxiety that comes with posting (because it does cause a lot of that - pressure to create a chapter you'll want and be happy with, pressure to obtain a certain amount of traction and engagement, etc). I just wanted to let you guys know that the next update for this fic could be tomorrow, or it could be a long time from now. I just need to have that out in the open, so that the expectations aren't there while I handle this new anxiety. I'll still be hanging out over on <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> though to cry about Kylo, so you can, of course, chat with me over there, should you wish.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kylo ruts his hips into yours, groaning into your mouth as he does. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing, nor is he terribly aware of it - not really. He’s too absorbed, his consciousness completely and utterly drowning in the sensation of your lips molding to his, your fingers gripping and clutching his arms as though you’ll be torn from him. Maker knows, Kylo would keep you linked, keep you melded to him for as long as you’d let him. The gyration spurs you on further, and you whine into his mouth. He swallows the sound, his hand gripping so tightly at your waist that he bunches the lace fabric in his fist. Kylo thinks that, for the first time, he feels happiness - bliss, a sense of euphoria he’ll chase for the rest of his life. </p>
<p>And for the first time, you <em> feel </em> it. You don’t see it, but you don’t have to. Just feeling it - how his lips curve upward, how the smallest, faintest laugh huffs from his mouth into yours, how he really <em> smiles </em> - is all you need. But as you’ve already come to know, such intimate moments, such small slivers of peace, don’t last long in this compound. </p>
<p>The door crashes open, bouncing off the wall with the force. Kylo is on his feet in seconds, rounding the bed and standing guard of you at it’s foot. You’ve barely processed the loss of his touch, barely registered that his limbs are no longer tangled with yours. </p>
<p>“Out,” Kylo barks, and the wave of anger, of pure fury that reverberates through you sends a chill down your spine. The more of this autocratic side to him that you see - this mercurial swing between innocence and dominion - the more you realise that, perhaps, the Knights really <em>should</em> fear him. “You don’t get to see her like this.” </p>
<p>“Like what?” Cardo’s stocky figure steps further into the room. “She’s <em> dressed</em>.” </p>
<p>“I don’t care,” Kylo hisses through clenched teeth. “These moments are <em> ours</em>.” </p>
<p>Without taking his eyes from what little of Cardo’s face he can see, he gestures to you, waving a hand to signal you to join him. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t fear Cardo - his oversized, ape-like limbs and his brute strength. You scramble to position yourself next to Kylo, and he steps around you, shielding you with his broad frame. He almost snarls, almost becomes feral, primitive, when Cardo takes another step toward you. </p>
<p>“You don’t get to have moments of your own,” Cardo smirks, his tone sinister, cold. “You didn’t know that by now?” He reaches to grab Kylo’s arm, then, but Kylo swiftly moves you both toward the door. He brings you to his front, holding your shoulders in his hands. His eyes narrow as he observes Cardo’s features, the vein that bulges in his neck, the stubble that litters his heavy jaw. </p>
<p>“When I become emperor,” Kylo hisses, “Your head will be the first I ask for.” </p>
<p>“Enough,” Vicrul booms from the doorway. “Dinner. <em> Now.</em>” </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>Snoke sits at the head of the table, his thin, blue-tinted lips stretched into a wicked grin. </p>
<p>“Lord and Lady Ren,” he greets, holding his arms out in a welcoming gesture. “Sit, sit for your wedding dinner.”</p>
<p>You look up at Kylo, who guides you toward the table with a hand placed gently on the small of your back. “He calls you ‘Lord’?”</p>
<p>“Only on occasions,” Kylo mumbles. He steers you toward a chair in the middle of the long dining table. It’s decorated with a black table cloth, today, and the white candles that usually adorn the centre have been switched out for red ones. Hux sits on the opposite side of the table, his hands clasped nervously in his lap. Once again, Brendol is absent. </p>
<p>“No,” Snoke orders, gesturing to Kylo. “She sits between us.”</p>
<p>You realise, now, that Kylo had attempted to seat you as far from Snoke as he could. He opens his mouth to protest, but you lay a hand softly on his chest. </p>
<p>“It’s fine,” you murmur. “I’m not afraid.”</p>
<p>You are.</p>
<p>Kylo concedes begrudgingly, stepping aside. </p>
<p>“Before we begin,” Snoke sighs, observing Kylo intently as he sits. “I have to leave, this evening.”<br/>“On business, Supreme Leader?” Kylo asks with little curiosity, and you can tell that he asks only out of subservience. <br/>“Yes, son. As soon as the table is cleared, you’re in command, is that clear?”<br/>“Yes, sir.” <br/>“Good,” he looks to you, then. “It will be your wife’s first taste of power. Let’s see how she handles it” <br/>“I have faith in her, sir,” Kylo nods. “You have nothing to worry about.” <br/>“I should hope not, son.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The meal itself is banal, bland as the food on the compound always is. Silence weighs heavy in the dark, candlelit room. You’ve gotten used to this, to silence. To being alone with the tumultuous thrum of your thoughts. If anything, it serves only to sour you, to dredge up unwanted ruminations and long forgotten inconsistencies, like it does now. </p>
<p>“I have a question,” your voice causes Hux to jump slightly, and all three men look to you expectantly. <br/>“And what would that be, sweetheart?” Snoke places his cutlery gently on his plate. <br/>“You didn’t tell me about the bond,” you fold your hands in your lap. “When I got here. You didn’t tell me about the prophecy.” <br/>“Would you have believed me?”<br/>“No.”<br/>“Precisely. You needed to learn from <em> him </em>,” Snoke smiles in that way that he does - the kind of smile that looks more like a grimace, more like a wince. “Or else you would have fought it, wouldn’t you?” </p>
<p>“You don’t know a thing about me,” you bite back, chewing at your lip. “And when I got here, Kylo told me he didn’t <em> know </em> why I was here.” </p>
<p>Snoke looks expectantly to Kylo, whose cheeks burn red as he grips tightly at his cutlery. Your eyes settle on his hands, the whites of his knuckles as the skin stretches against them. He feels your anger, your frustration as it slowly, painfully, makes its way from your soul to his. An anger long buried, long forgotten - soothed and glazed by his touch and his devotion. </p>
<p>“I didn’t take you for much of a liar,” Snoke leans back in his seat, folding his arms across his hollow, concave chest. “I’m impressed.” </p>
<p>“I do what I have to,” Kylo snarls, the hairs on the back of his neck standing fully to attention. He wouldn’t have unearthed this buried confidence, this tenacity, were it not for you. He’s enraged at the thought, at the very notion that his inchoate idea of mercy could rip you from him. “And I-I didn’t hide it, in my mind. I left myself open, I didn’t think it would take so long for you to learn how to see.” </p>
<p>“That’s not the point,” you snap. “You <em> lied</em>.” </p>
<p>“I <em> had </em> to,” he insists, dropping his cutlery to the table. The clang of it startles you, and you jump back in your seat. “Leader Snoke, he said you’d be afraid, that I’d have to...to <em> force </em> you to stay with me. I wanted you…” he trails off, inhaling sharply. He’s acutely aware, now, that Snoke can see his weaknesses. His failures. <em> But surely </em> , he thinks. <em> Snoke should know that weakness is you</em>. “I wanted you to want me on your own. I thought the prophecy would scare you.” </p>
<p>“How long have you known about it?” you ignore his admission, the vulnerability he’s displaying. “The prophecy?” </p>
<p>“Most of my life,” Kylo admits. “But wh-when Leader Snoke told me about l-love, I didn’t know they were the same thing.” </p>
<p>Hux sits quietly, pale faced and nervous, as his eyes flit frantically between all three of you. You think that, perhaps, you shouldn’t feel such sorrow for him, but you do. </p>
<p>“Well, you’ve never been terribly astute, son,” Snoke chuckles darkly. “Have you?” </p>
<p>Your neck almost snaps straight in half with the force of your reaction as you turn quickly to face him. </p>
<p>“He’s far more astute than you give him credit for,” the strength, the power behind your voice shocks even you. “If he doesn’t know what love is, then how would he ever be able to connect the two? You’ve sheltered him and only taught him what you want him to know, then mock him for what he doesn’t?” </p>
<p>“That’s quite enough from you, Lady Ren, lest I remind you of your place,” Snoke leans forward in his seat, close enough for you to see the dried saliva that sits, crackling at the corners of his mouth. </p>
<p>“My place is on a throne, is it not?” you straighten your back as you speak, and Kylo cautiously places a hand on your forearm - a silent plea not to overstep any further. </p>
<p>“Not yet, it isn’t,” Snoke gestures to Cardo, who stands obediently in the shadows, arms crossed and hands clasped at his front. “I’m still in the building, sweetheart.” </p>
<p>“Touch her, and I’ll have your head,” Kylo shouts as Cardo approaches your seat. </p>
<p>“Have it, then,” Cardo grunts, lifting you from your seat with both arms hooked under your armpits. You kick back at him roughly, but it’s little use. Kylo goes to stand, but Hux kicks desperately at his legs from underneath the table, shoving one of his feet between Kylo’s ankles and preventing him from standing. </p>
<p>“Take her back to her chambers,” Snoke orders. “Ren, you’ll sit at this table and do as you are told, is that understood?” </p>
<p>Kylo’s jaw clenches in fury, and you can feel his conflict as it churns within him, you feel the nausea it brings, the terror, as he watches Cardo drag your kicking and writhing frame through the heavy double-doors. </p>
<p>And then, you’re gone. </p>
<p>Kylo turns back to the table, seething but silent. Hux withdraws his feet, sheepishly tucking them back beneath his chair. If Snoke noticed Armitage’s intervention, he says nothing of it. He simply eyes Kylo with indignation as he wordlessly motions to the waiter to clear the table. </p>
<p>“Careful, Ren,” Snoke mutters. “That you don’t forget your place.” </p>
<p>Kylo remains mute as the table is cleared, the waiter bending awkwardly around his broad frame in a feeble attempt to gather plates. </p>
<p>Snoke rises from his seat just as Brendol enters the room, Cardo following on his heels. </p>
<p>“The car is ready, sir,” Brendol bows his head. </p>
<p>“Good,” Snoke makes his way toward the door, turning to regard Kylo once more. “I trust you’ll rule as well as you have in the past, Ren. Don’t let me down.” </p>
<p>“I won’t, Supreme Leader,” Kylo bows his head, though he’s facing away from Snoke. Kylo listens intently, waiting for Cardo to slam the doors shut behind his superiors. When he does, when the vibrations of the wood hitting the door-frame reverberate through the room, only then, does Kylo rise from his seat. </p>
<p>Cardo stands silently at the door - and Kylo knows that Trudgen and Vicrul are standing guard outside your chambers, that Ap’lek and Kuruk will accompany Snoke on this rotation. He knows that Ushar is on floor duty, and is walking in laps around the compound. He knows that, to his grave misfortune, Cardo is to guard the throne room this evening. </p>
<p>Hux mirrors Kylo, standing and bowing his head. </p>
<p>“Welcome back to your throne, Supreme Leader,”</p>
<p>“I told you not to do that,” Kylo mutters. </p>
<p>“I didn’t kneel, did I?” Hux chides, moving to the safe. “Will you take your throne or return to your wife?”</p>
<p>“I’ll take the throne,” Kylo murmurs, “I have matters to attend to.” </p>
<p>Hux’s brow furrows. </p>
<p>“Your itinerary is free from now, sir.” </p>
<p>“I know,” Kylo steps toward the throne. “I’ve got my own itinerary.” </p>
<p>Kylo gestures to Hux to open the safe, and he does - withdrawing his crossguard tentatively and placing it in Kylo’s open palm. He looks to Cardo, who stands stock still, eyes trained on the wall. Kylo wonders, momentarily, if Cardo knows how much suffering, how much pain he’s caused him. He wonders if he thrives on it, if his pain fuels him. He’s sure it does. So he does, then, what he hasn’t in some time. He reaches out with his palm, the vibrations of the force ripple through the air and Kylo is enthralled to find that he’s caught Cardo off guard, there’s no wall blocking him from the Knight’s innermost thoughts. Cardo abruptly stiffens, grunting as he collapses onto his knees. </p>
<p>“Get out of my head,” he hisses, and Kylo only persists. “Get out!” He clutches at his skull desperately, and Kylo hums as he steps toward the fallen Knight. <br/>“You don’t think I deserve this throne,” Kylo murmurs, pushing deeper into Cardo’s consciousness. “Is that why you’ve always been such a brute?”<br/>“We both know that you don’t,” he grits, teeth clenching as he doubles over in pain. “We both know I deserve it, it’s my birthright!” <br/>“And what would you stand to do with it?” Kylo prods. “What use would you have? You can’t use the Force. What would our people have to worship?”<br/>“You’ve never even seen the people who worship you,” Cardo yells. “I see them every day. I’m his <em> son</em>!” <br/>“And look at how he treats you,” Kylo takes the crossguard and traces the vein, that annoying, bulging vein he’s so sick of the sight of, with the blade. “Like a slave.” <br/>“And you’re not?” Tears spring from Cardo’s eyes, now. “You’re nothing but a pawn, useless and weak.” </p>
<p>“Supreme Leader,” Hux interjects nervously, “<em>Think </em> about this.” </p>
<p>But Kylo, he knows now, that he doesn't have to. Nor does he have to wait for his inauguration, until he is declared Emperor. No. Kylo Ren has been patient long enough. And he is not a patient man. </p>
<p>“I’ll show you weak,” Kylo states, his voice calm, his demeanor collected, as he swings the blade. Hux winces, abruptly turning his head as he whimpers at the sound, the slice of the flesh, the splurt of the blood. He lets the crossguard clatter to the floor, landing in the crimson liquid that now springs from Cardo’s headless form. The noise is soon followed by the click of the side-door, footsteps fast approaching toward the scene. Kylo hears the weight of their boots, the short length of their stride as they approach. </p>
<p>Kylo turns to the source of the footsteps, to the man who now stands obediently at his side. </p>
<p>“Do with him what you do with the rest.” </p>
<p>And Poe does.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter Twenty-Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You’d question it, you would, but you can’t. The sincerity, the depth of it - it may be the only truth you’ve ever known.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>*puts on clown shoes* Here I am, once again, updating while I'm on a ""break"" because I'm plagued by this fic in the best of ways.</b> Listen, I'm still gonna be updating. If it becomes sporadic, it becomes sporadic. But atm, it seems as though I just...literally cannot stop. Smh. </p>
<p>Also, I had to cut this chapter in half because it was just way too long, so any dialogue and plot points you think are missing, will likely crop up in the latter half. Not a whole lot happens here, and I'm sorry about that. </p>
<p>Also, forgot to remind you guys about <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27404080">Rhythm and Melody</a>, a TC side piece where we sing and dance with Kylo.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Was he right?” </p>
<p>Kylo sits on his throne, foot tapping idly against the floor. His eyes rest on the pool of blood that seeps across the floor, penetrating the crevices in the old tile. He marvels at how quickly it invades the surface, how it binds itself, melds itself to the crumbling material. He’d worry about a stain, but the once-grey grout is now near black with the remnants of body fluids. Not all of it blood, he remembers. </p>
<p>“About what?”</p>
<p>Hux stands at Kylo’s side, hands clasped tightly behind his back. He doesn’t look at Kylo when he speaks. His eyes are instead, trained on the heavy double-doors. </p>
<p>“He says he knows the people. I don’t.” <br/>“He does,” Hux nods. “Knows them because he beats them. Herds them like sheep to a slaughter.” </p>
<p>Kylo cocks an eyebrow. </p>
<p>“What’s a sheep?” <br/>“Nevermind,” Hux mumbles, shifting uncomfortably as Kylo turns in his seat to face him with an accusatory stare. <br/>“Have you been <em> outside</em>?” </p>
<p>Hux scoffs. </p>
<p>“A handful of times, as a child,” Kylo hums thoughtfully at his response. “But I’ve never seen a sheep. It’s just a phrase my father uses.” </p>
<p>Kylo makes a mental note to ask you of this later, to explain to him what a ‘sheep’ is. He often feels guilty, for all the things you have to teach him. He makes another mental note. He wants to teach you, too. </p>
<p>“I wonder what they look like.”<br/>“Miss Sloane says they’re white, that they look like clouds.” </p>
<p>Kylo squints. It’s been many years since he was afforded the privilege of a blue sky, or a cloud. Since Brendol took his windows away, his only connection to the fresh air of the atmosphere has been his weekly walks around the compound’s exterior. But the Knights, they take him at dusk. Kylo <em> hates </em> dusk. He can’t see the blue of the sky, nor can he bask in the gaze of the moon, or the stars  - the stars he yearns for. </p>
<p>“Miss Sloane?”</p>
<p>Hux looks to Kylo cautiously. </p>
<p>“Yes, she was my au pair. You didn’t have one?” <br/>“What’s an au pair?” <br/>“A woman who looks after you when you’re young.” <br/>“Oh,” Kylo remembers her scowl, her spanks. He winces. “Yes, I had one.” <br/>“Curious,” Hux mumbles, half to himself.<br/>“What is?” <br/>“I’ve known you all this time, but never thought to ask you that.” <br/>“I didn’t have Miss Sloane. And It’s not pressing information,” Kylo mumbles, and as he does, the doors finally creak open. Kylo rises to his feet, watching patiently as Poe enters the throne room. </p>
<p>“It’s done,” Poe declares, nodding slowly. <br/>“He’s burned?” Hux steps forward, and Poe regards him with only slight contempt. <br/>“<em>Burning </em> ,” Poe corrects. “It’ll take a while.”<br/>“How long?” Kylo prods. <br/>“Well, never usually takes longer than about five hours, sir,” Poe bows his head, and Kylo waves a hand dismissively. <br/>“Don’t do that,” he mumbles. <br/>“<em>Sir </em> ,” Hux clears his throat. “You’ll <em> have </em> to get used to it.”</p>
<p>“I don’t care about other people doing it,” Kylo steps back to his throne. “I don’t like either of <em> you </em> doing it.” <br/>“Why is that, sir?” Poe pipes up, and Kylo looks at him incredulously. </p>
<p>“Because y-you’re…” he trails off, helplessly trawling his mind for the word, the term you’d explained to him. When he finds it, though, he lets the word die on his tongue. “I just don’t like it,” he grits, knee bouncing nervously. “When did Snoke say he’ll return?”<br/>“He didn’t,” Hux replies. “But the itinerary is yours for seven days.” <br/>“You didn’t have a plan, did you?” Poe almost sighs, and Kylo shakes his head. “We’ll figure it out, buddy.” <br/>“I thought you’d be angry,” Kylo murmurs, eyes settling on Poe’s necklace. </p>
<p>“I’m not. I mean, if it was anyone else, I would be,” Poe scoffs then. “But Cardo beats the life out of good people. A lot of good men and women are safer with him gone,” Poe nods thoughtfully to Kylo.</p>
<p>“<em>Especially </em> you.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>Kylo can feel it - the churning, tumultuous waves of betrayal that roar within you. He can feel it through the door, snaking around his fingers as they wrap around the handle. The fluorescence of the hallway bleeds into the room, and your figure is partly illuminated by the harsh, green-tinted light. </p>
<p>“I didn’t take you for a liar,” you mutter, your tone bitter as you press your cheek further into the silk pillowcase. Your back is to him, and you’re still in your dress, curled up on the bed. It distracts him, the way it hugs at your waist, the way the lace encompasses your arms. He can feel your irritation - it slides across the room, cutting through the air and slicing right through his skin. He cares, of course he does. He’s eaten half alive by the thought of it - of your fury, of letting you down. But you’re <em> right </em> there, and you’re so <em> beautiful,</em> and  -</p>
<p>“<em>Kylo </em>,” you scowl, turning to look over your shoulder. He’s still standing in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to another. His eyes flick from your waist to nervously meet yours. “Are you going to say anything?” </p>
<p>He chews at the inside of his cheek again. </p>
<p>“Stop that,” you mumble, turning away from him and bringing your knees as close to your chest as you can. </p>
<p>“Stop what?”</p>
<p>“Chewing at your cheek, you’ll give yourself blisters.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to make this worse,” he steps into the room, shutting the door softly behind him. “You’re angry with me, I don’t want to accelerate it.” </p>
<p>“You’ll make it worse if you keep avoiding the subject.” </p>
<p>He wishes you’d look at him, wishes he could see the candlelight reflect in your eyes, wishes he could watch how it submerges your cheeks in an iridescent glow - the light gleaming across your cheeks, as it always does. He reaches out through your dyad, prodding at you from a safe distance - a plea, though a silent one, to let him <em> see</em>. </p>
<p>You ignore him. And he feels a familiar lump in his throat. You’re too irate to care. </p>
<p>Kylo doesn’t want to know <em> why </em> you’re so enraged. Not because he doesn’t care - because he does - but because he doesn’t want to be scolded. Doesn’t want to be reminded of yet another mistake, yet another strategy that has crumbled right in front of him. But you’ve learned a little more about listening - and you can hear him, now. His thoughts, his stream of consciousness as it rolls through his mind. </p>
<p>“<em>Tough</em>,” you mutter. “I’m going to tell you exactly why I’m mad.” </p>
<p>Kylo swallows. He’d tried, really, he had, to avoid this. He’d hoped the minor detail would stay forgotten, would stay <em> buried</em>. </p>
<p>“I’m angry because I <em> trusted </em> you,” you sniffle, a tear you hadn’t realised was forming now springs free. “I came here, I left everyone I knew and cared about behind, not knowing when I’d ever see them again, to help you. And I knew it would be hard, I did, I’m not stupid, but God. I didn’t know half of what I was fucking in for. I’m still here, so <em> obviously</em>, my friends are having a hard time with the rescue. And as if being here a second longer than I have to be isn’t bad enough, I have to deal with the fact that everything I know about the world is wrong, because it must be, if someone like <em> you</em>, if something like <em> this</em>, can exist. And then I had to go and fall for you,” you’re sobbing, now. Words flying from your mouth with a venomous bite, the salt of your tears sharp on your tongue. “Or maybe whatever it is that we have between us made me fall for you, I don’t know. All I know is that I <em> trusted </em> you to be truthful with me.” </p>
<p>Kylo doesn’t answer at first, but he steps closer to you all the same. You’re still facing away from him. </p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>Though he can’t see you, your brows furrow in question.</p>
<p>“About what, Kylo?”</p>
<p>“You didn’t fall,” he states, his voice closer now as he stands at the foot of the bed. “I would have caught you.” </p>
<p>You can’t help the frustrated sigh that escapes you. You really can’t, because it irritates you, it does. The way he focuses on randomized moments, never reacts to what you need him to <em> hear</em>. </p>
<p>“I didn’t <em> literally </em> fall, Kylo, it’s an expression.” </p>
<p>“For what?”</p>
<p>“It doesn’t matter, that’s not what you should be focusing on.” </p>
<p>He shifts, and you don’t have to see him to know that he’s brooding, sulking like a sullen child. You’ve come to learn that about him - he doesn’t take to being scolded. Nor does he take to being told what does and doesn’t matter. So, when Kylo burrows into your mind, sliding through sliver upon sliver of memory and emotion, he assumes you expect it. </p>
<p>“<em>Kylo </em>,” you warn, stern in your tone as you turn your head to look at him. But he’s already found what he’s looking for, has already found the thread he intends to pull and pull and pull until you unravel for him like he has for you. He rounds the bed, kneeling before you with this look, this expression of hope, of promise that doesn’t fit the situation. He reaches out, a hand trailing down your shoulder, the curve of your waist. </p>
<p>“I love you, too,” he murmurs, and then you feel it - the embodiment of it. He wraps you in it - this delicate, celestial force, and it slinks across your skin. The warmth of it blossoms in your chest, spreading through your blood vessels, illuminating every cell your body harbours with the light of <em> him</em>, the light of <em> this</em>. For a moment, life itself blooms inside you - stars, planets, galaxies align within the confines of your body, in the crevice between your lungs. A universe. Waves swell, leaves fall, thunder cracks and stars burn, collapse, then die. </p>
<p>You’d question it, you would, but you can’t. The sincerity, the depth of it - it may be the only truth you’ve ever known. </p>
<p>He moves a hand to your face, fingers tracing along your jaw. </p>
<p>“You were angry,” he murmurs. “Now you’re happy.” </p>
<p>You chuckle, sniffling again as your skin absorbs the last of your tears. </p>
<p>“I’m still angry, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you,” you look at him then, realising the concern you see etched into his features. “Did you think that I wouldn’t love you because I was angry?” </p>
<p>“For a moment,” he follows the curve of your neck with his index finger. “I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>“For what?”</p>
<p>“For not telling you, for lying,” he sighs softly, his breath dusting across your cheeks. “You were so afraid. I thought I was helping you by not making it worse.” </p>
<p>And despite it all, in a way, you’re proud of him. Proud of his ability to decipher how to act in such a situation, to be able to navigate that moment and decide for himself what path he should take. </p>
<p>“Next time,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut as his fingers dance across your pulsepoint. “Just tell me. I can handle it.” </p>
<p>He pauses, his hand ceases its movements, and you know, then, that there’s more. There’s something else. But you don’t go digging, you don’t traipse through his mind in search of skeletons. You want to hear it from his mouth. </p>
<p>He looks at you hesitantly, chewing at his cheek again with added fervor. </p>
<p>“I killed him,” his voice shakes as he speaks - not with guilt, or sorrow, but with the fear of your rejection.</p>
<p>“Cardo. I killed him.” </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">You can come chat with me on tumblr if you'd like</a>. If I'm not as active on here anymore (though I doubt that day will ever fully come at this rate), you can say hey through the DM's or the askbox, or just chill out and observe the ride.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Chapter Twenty-Three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak. </i>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A <i>very</i> short update, which I'm sorry about. I don't know why, but writing this chapter was like drawing blood from stone. Sincerely sorry if it's not as up to standard as other chapters. But hey, we got here in the end. The following chapter will likely be up soon, because I'm literally <i>raring</i> to write it. </p>
<p>Anyway! A huge, giant, massive, unbelievable thank you to the ever-wonderful <a>Clumsy</a> for making <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/post/636426333845618688/the-way-i-have-been-knocked-off-my-feet-by">the most stunning art</a> for this piece. Go send her your love, and check out her stunning writing. <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/clumsycopy/pseuds/clumsycopy">Her AO3 is here, too.</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “You’re nothing but a pawn, useless and weak.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak.  </em>
</p>
<p>The word thrashes violently around his skull, luring him further and further into this all-too familiar pit. Kylo worries his bottom lip between his crooked teeth as he leans over the sink, his wet hair dripping into the porcelain bowl. He shifts, lifting his head only enough to observe the scars that litter his torso - healed, though badly. Some have faded to white, others remain a dusky shade of pink. His nose crinkles in disgust. <em> Weak </em>. </p>
<p>He’s always known it. Always so attuned to his flaws and his failures. How he allowed himself to be beaten, broken and tortured. How he allowed himself to fall victim to his circumstances. How he’s aware of it - painfully so - yet powerless to stop it. Powerless to leave the cycle. <em> Afraid</em>. <em> Weak</em>. <em> Afraid</em>. But now, as he allows the water droplets from his lukewarm shower to absorb into his skin, he finds himself in a quandary. He’s confused, uncertain as to what constitutes as weak - as <em> defenseless </em> -, and what will fuel his power. The power he’s been told, time and time again, will be fuelled by <em> you </em>. </p>
<p>
  <em> “Love is what drives the dark side of the force, Ren. It’s what will fuel your power, it’s what will make you the Emperor that you are destined to be.”  </em>
</p>
<p>Snoke’s words, wise and astute, ring in his mind. Strong. He’s <em> strong </em> . Love is strong, his love for <em> you </em> is boundless, infinite - an eternally burning flame that consumes every atom of his flawed being. And that- it brings him vigor, it fuels his rage. Rage coaxes him to the darkness, and there, he’ll find the power, the strength to fulfil his destiny, to become the Emperor he knows he can, and <em> will</em>, be. But as much as this dyad feeds him, it simultaneously drains him. Because you exist as a paradox, a contradiction in his mind. Fuelling his strength while diminishing it. Because you are his achilles heel, his defect. What he’ll do, what he’s capable of when it comes to you - well, you’re his most fatal flaw. He understands now, the danger of it. The danger of what he’ll do to keep you safe, to keep you with him - untouched and guarded -, only serves to destroy him. And he’ll die, a man on fire, if he must. </p>
<p>He stands straighter, frowning in irritation as his water streams from his scalp, trickling down the nape of his neck. </p>
<p><em> Weak</em>. </p>
<p>He attempts to shake the thought from his mind, but to no avail. The avalanche has already begun. His mind spins as he grinds his teeth, the crude sound echoing around the tiled room. Thoughts race through his mind, and anxiety - downright <em> panic </em> - begins to churn furiously in his stomach. He thinks of Poe. Thinks of that word. A word he now knows, now understands, to be nothing but yet another shortcoming, another dire frailty. </p>
<p>Keeping Poe and Hux in such a position of high regard only fails him further, causing him to falter when he shouldn’t. Maker knows, he’s made enough concessions already, has delved further and further into his weaknesses and let them consume him. He let Poe live, let him walk free when he shouldn’t have. He should have let his body fall at his feet, cracked and broken and bleeding. But he let himself be talked down, let his armour fall because someone - <em> you </em> - showed him kindness. Infiltrated his defenses, enraptured him and left him vulnerable. And now, here he stands, infected right down to his core with this disease you’ve bestowed upon him. He recoils at his reflection, and his skin crawls with it - this vile sensation of fragility. For you, he’ll endure it. He’ll burn. He’ll absorb this terror, devour it, use it as an accelerant to instigate the inferno that now blazes inside him. But the rest must go. </p>
<p>And when his faults die, only he will prevail. </p>
<hr/>
<p>You’re sitting on the bed, stock still and silent. You’re thinking. </p>
<p>Kylo cautiously opens the bathroom door, the fabric that encases his shoulders already soaked through from his dripping hair. He prods tentatively at your bond, but you ignore him, folding your arms across your chest in a show of obstinacy. </p>
<p>“You’re disappointed in <em> yourself</em>,” Kylo states plainly, his eyes settling on the curve of your neck. Your skin glows under the candlelight, and he thinks, once again, that you’re surely a gift from the stars. “I don’t understand.” </p>
<p>And you are. Of course you are. Because you should feel <em> something</em>. <em> Anger </em> at him for taking yet another life that wasn’t his to take. Fury, burning <em> rage </em> at the fact that he’d choose to tell you that he loves you before admitting to his sins. Grief, sadness, <em> anything,</em> at the loss of a man’s <em> life</em>. </p>
<p>But there’s nothing. And when you allow yourself to venture along the ties that bind your soul to his, you see he feels even <em> less </em> than you do. </p>
<p>“Don’t you ever feel guilt?” You turn to face him, observing his blank expression. “Don’t you ever regret it?” </p>
<p>“I do what I have to do,” he mutters, and his hands clench into fists as he speaks. </p>
<p>“That’s not what I asked you.”</p>
<p>“Do you need to ask me?” He takes a step closer, his shadow encroaching upon your space. “You have free reign over my mind, yet you ask me anyway.” </p>
<p>“I’d like to hear you say it,” you raise your brows expectantly. “Out loud.”</p>
<p>“No,” he grits his teeth, the depth of his voice sending a biting chill along your spine. “I don’t.”</p>
<p>“You’re lying.” </p>
<p>“Then don’t ask what you already know,” he growls, and you can feel it, the shift in him. He’s different. Mercurial as always, but there’s something else. Something darker than the void that already swallows his being. </p>
<p>“It’s been a long day,” you mutter, recalling the sheer length of it, of what you've both endured. You’ve barely processed it - it feels unreal, almost. “We should sleep.” </p>
<p>He rounds the bed, standing on his side. You’ve since changed out of your dress, and he watches as you slide beneath the sheets, your exposed legs and arms quickly disappearing from view. He slips in behind you, still leaving a foot of distance between your body and his. He craves it - your touch, your lips. Now that he’s tasted it, tasted <em> you</em>, he’s like a man starved, desperate and aching. Because you <em> belong </em> to him, you’re wholly and fully <em> his</em>. </p>
<p>You turn away from him, curling into yourself and holding the sheets close to your skin. The temperature seems to drop every night that you’re here, the room becoming colder and colder each evening. </p>
<p>He reaches out, his fingertips finding the nape of your neck as he drags the pads of them along your skin. So soft, so perfectly soft, and all for him. You jump slightly, turning your head to regard him. </p>
<p>“What are you doing?” </p>
<p>“Writing,” he murmurs. “Writing a word.” </p>
<p>“What word?” </p>
<p>His fingers repeat their prior movements, tracing the word into your skin a second time, then a third, then a fourth. Goosebumps rise along your arms as you lay still, at the mercy of his quiet touch. Your breathing quickens in pace as he traces the word a fifth time, his body shifting closer to yours as he does. </p>
<p>“<em>Mine</em>.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">come say hey on tumblr</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Chapter Twenty-Four</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“<i>Take</i>,” you breathe, his thoughts circling your consciousness, tempting you toward sin. Enticing you toward the line you shouldn’t cross, but know you will. “Take what you want.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>All aboard the smut train! All 3000 words of it. Eep. I refuse to believe, in any capacity, that Kylo Ren is bad at sex. So. This is, perhaps, on the better side of virginity loss. But hey! You guys have waited 50,000 words for this - so thank you. You really stuck through it, lol. I appreciate you guys so much for sticking with this story and loving it for what it is. I hope you enjoy what's to come. PS, thank you for 300 kudos!<br/>And a quick reminder that I write in second person omniscient, hence the head-hopping, for anyone new to this story. </p>
<p>As always, a special shout-out to <a href="https://svpremekylo.tumblr.com/">svpremekylo</a>. I don't know how I wrote so much of this story without you. You've become such a huge part of this piece, and of my life. So thank you for all that you do to make this story what it is, L, and for how much of it you inspire. </p>
<p>And also, a shout-out to the most beautiful artwork made by <a href="https://clumsycopy.tumblr.com/">Clumsy</a>, <a href="https://clumsycopy.tumblr.com/post/636614587452702720/my-rivers-tilt-towards-you">of our Cultist!Kylo at his desk.</a> It's so stunning. Again, <i>thank you</i>, Clusmy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A week. </p>
<p>Give or take a few days.</p>
<p>That’s all it took. </p>
<p>That’s all it took for your soul to collapse beneath the weight of his, succumbing to him completely. Swallowed whole by this ethereal vacuum of power and darkness, its unseen tendrils binding you ruthlessly to the body that possesses it. Possesses <em> you</em>. A man built by titans, by nebulas, by God’s. A man made of stardust and dark matter, built only for you. <em> Always</em>, for you. </p>
<p>Your chest heaves with it, with this celestial sensitivity, your skin alight with the grace of his touch. It burns, almost. Your body now serves as his vellum, his parchment, and you’re set alight by the striking flame of his contact. Singing your skin, cells smoldering under the intensity of it, the heat of it. His fingertips graze across the goosebumps that litter the nape of your neck, searing the word into your skin a sixth time, then a seventh. </p>
<p>“Mine,” he murmurs again, closer now than before. His thighs graze the back of yours, the fabric of his robes now brushing against the exposed skin of your shoulders. “<em>Mine</em>.” </p>
<p>An eighth time, a ninth. Your skin buzzes, alive with the current of his protracted magnetism.</p>
<p>“Say it,” he leans in, his forehead nudging gently against your scalp. “Tell me that you’re mine.” </p>
<p>Because he needs it, needs to hear it. Needs to <em> feel </em> it. His hand slides from your neck, wrapping loosely around your throat. He needs to touch it, needs to manifest your devotion into something that will reverberate through his palm. Needs to <em> feel </em> your voice as you speak, as you promise him this one thing. </p>
<p>And you’re tempted, really, you are, to tell him not to ask for what he already knows. For what he can already feel, nestled deep inside the very pits of his marrow. But he has you, he’s cut you open and crawled inside, making a home inside your pliant flesh. You’re completely and utterly at his mercy. </p>
<p>“Yours,” your voice is quiet, gentle but firm. He feels your vocal chords flutter beneath his touch, and his eyes fall shut as a sense of bliss, a sense of belonging, washes over him. Your voice, your blood, your entire being lays in his hands, his to cultivate. And he knows it, he does. He feels it, feels it radiate from your skin to his, feels it accumulate in his chest, building and building until - </p>
<p>“I’m <em> yours</em>.” </p>
<p>He inhales sharply, his hand tightening around your throat for only a second before he pulls it away, dropping it to your waist. He tugs at the silk fabric of your nightdress, and revels in the sleek feel of it, of how close he is to the skin that lays beneath. It slides along the curve of your hip and he bunches it in his fist, the delicate material creasing under his touch. </p>
<p>He swallows thickly, chastising his body for its intrinsic reaction. He feels himself swell, harder and harder with every benign graze of your skin. He doesn’t understand, not really. He doesn’t fully grasp why his body reacts so forcefully to the curves of your hips, the proximity of your body. But his actions are primal, basal instinct to its very core.</p>
<p>“Let me see,” his voice low, demanding, and he pulls you back against him as he attempts to turn you. “Let me see you.” </p>
<p>He maneuvers you, and your chest slides against his as you roll to face him. You feel light, surreal. Your dreamlike state is countered only by the weight of his arms that now curl around you, binding you, swallowing you like virulent vines. His eyes, glassy and dark, flit across your features, a hand moving to cradle your jaw. </p>
<p>He knows what he wants, though not how to articulate it. He craves the touch of your lips, the glide of your tongue. He wants to touch you, to <em> see </em> you, <em> understand </em> you. Understand what lies beneath the silk, the only evasive parts of you that remain clandestine, obscured from his touch. But he doesn’t know why, nor does he know how to request such lewd, obscene permissions. If he should ask, beg, plead for anything you’re willing to give, or just take what he knows, what he feels that you want. Take you as <em> his</em>, claim you, possess you. </p>
<p>“<em>Take</em>,” you breathe, his thoughts circling your consciousness, tempting you toward sin. Enticing you toward the line you shouldn’t cross, but know you will. You’re as far gone as he is -  and you can tell that he’s past his point of return, his eyes black and heavy with lust. You want - need him, <em> desire </em> him - more than you’ve ever wanted <em> anyone </em> .  And more than anything else, you crave his possession, you covet to be claimed by him, <em> wrecked </em> by him. </p>
<p>“Take what you want.” </p>
<p>He groans softly as his plush lips find yours, licking fervently into your mouth. The stroke of your tongue as it slides against his, as your hands tangle in his hair, your bare legs shifting between his thighs - it’s <em> shattering </em>. He rolls above you, caging you beneath his enormous frame. His self control, his self restraint is quickly fading, leaving behind only a primordial, frenetic man. His kiss is searing hot and wet, and his body weighs against yours as his hips gyrate against you. </p>
<p>“Show me,” he groans into your mouth, cradling your face and neck in one large hand. “Show me what this means.” </p>
<p>He rolls his hips again, and you run a soothing hand across the expanse of his back as you open your mind to him, allowing him entry to the deepest cravasses of your subconscious. He rests his forehead against yours, the weight of it almost mirroring the peculiar sensation of his foraging. He moves through your consciousness with ease - your wisdom, your memories all flooding his senses, captivating his attention. </p>
<p>Knowledge, <em> resolve </em> courses through him now - biology, bodies, their functions. He quickly sifts through long forgotten pages of sex-ed text books, his mind’s eye overtaken with diagrams and definitions. His hips continue to grind against you, his lips mindlessly caressing yours. Gentle, soft, slow. He’s engulfed by memories of your own fingers curling inside you, dragging across your clit as you lay in your bed, edging yourself closer and closer to release. </p>
<p>But then, he sees <em> you </em> . A memory, another man. Touching you, thrusting into you. His lips collide with yours, his movements savage and selfish. And you make this <em> noise </em> - this gorgeous, wanton noise, and Kylo snaps. He abruptly rips himself from your psyche, thrashing back to reality with a harsh hiss. His kiss becomes rough, his grip on your neck tightens. Betrayal, unhinged <em> jealousy </em> weighs in his gut, putrefying as it dissolves into guilt, then lust, then <em> possession</em>. His veins burn with the intensity of it - the gravity of this building rage. You’re <em> his</em>. His always. His alone.</p>
<p>“I’ll make you feel better than <em> he </em> did,” he growls, teeth clashing against yours. “Than anyone <em> ever </em> has,” he pulls back just enough to hold your chin between his thumb and forefinger, guiding your eyes to his. “I’ll be your last.” </p>
<p>His caution has collapsed, his restraint obliterated. He tugs at your nightdress again, pulling at the hem. For a moment - just a moment - you hesitate. Self-consciousness, anxiety begins to surge within you - because how could <em> you</em>, in all of your normalcy, be good enough for a celestial deity such as he? An average, mediocre woman is no match for a man of such power, of such glory. </p>
<p>“Nothing about you is average,” he grunts, frenzied eyes meeting yours as he sits up, straddling your waist. “<em>Nothing</em>.” </p>
<p>Your stomach flutters at his words, and you sit up slightly, pulling the thin garment over your head. The silk falls away, leaving only your skin, bare and exposed and all for <em> him.</em> His breath hitches in his throat as you lay back against the pillows, his eyes fixed to your chest - how it’s not flat, not muscular like his. It swells with flesh and he finds himself salivating at the sight. </p>
<p><em> Take. Take what you want</em>. </p>
<p>His hands run across your breasts, cupping them, feeling the corpulent tissue as it gives way to his touch. He groans softly, and his hips buck slightly. His thumbs flit across your nipples and you whimper quietly, the noise eliciting another moan from him. He leans down, giving into instinct, trailing his lips across your collarbone, down your chest. His hands drag down your sides, and he continues his trail down your stomach, across your hips. </p>
<p><em> Beautiful</em>.</p>
<p>He sends the word across your bond, and your heart, your entire being soars from his praise. And he feels it, your reaction, how desperate and pliant you are for him, craving his admiration. </p>
<p>“You like that,” he murmurs into your skin, teeth scraping slowly across your lower abdomen. “You like when I praise you.” </p>
<p>You mewl softly, and Kylo sits up, eyes darker now than ever. </p>
<p>“I want you to show me,” he tugs at his robes, and you watch with devoted attention as he begins to undress. “Show me how you touch yourself.” </p>
<p><em> Show me how to please you.</em> </p>
<p>You blink, unsure if he means what you think he means. If he intends for you to -</p>
<p>“That’s exactly what I mean,” his gaze bores into you, his voice stern. Your mind is as naked to him as your body, and he roams freely through the depths of your inner self. He gradually slips his upper garments from his body, the soft black fabric falling at his knees. You feel him falter, his demeanor internally shifting as your eyes rake across his newly disclosed flesh. His sides are littered with fresh and half-healed bruises, pink and white raised skin pepper the pale skin of his toned chest and stomach - deep, badly healed scars, welts, sores. But you don’t recoil, as he had expected. No, adoration sears from your mind to his, and your eyes fall heavy, laden with lust. The arousal that blossoms in your core finds its way across your connection, spurring him on. He shifts backward, moving to push your legs apart. </p>
<p>“Show me,” he commands again, taking your hand and guiding it toward your heat. He watches, chest heaving, as you slide two fingers through your growing wetness, down to your opening and then back to your clit. He follows each movement meticulously, his stare bound to each glide of your fingers as they move back to your entrance, pushing inside. A strangled noise leaves Kylo’s throat as the heel of your palm connects with your clit, your back arching in contented pleasure. A quiet, subdued moan escapes your throat, your palm gliding over and over and over your clit, your fingers rocking against that spot inside you. Your hips gyrate against your hand, your eyes fall shut as you push your head further into the silk pillowcase. You’re already so, so close, all worked up from his presence, his skin, his touch. But then his hands are on you, grasping your wrist tightly, and he rips your hand away. His mind flits back to that moment, that memory, that <em> man </em>. </p>
<p>“The rest belongs to me,” he leans back in, still holding your wrist, his lips ghosting tentatively across yours. Your free hand moves to tangle in his hair, but he grasps it roughly.</p>
<p>“No,” he grunts. “You can touch me once you’ve learned your place.” </p>
<p>Your brow furrows, tilting your head to meet his glare. </p>
<p>“My place?” </p>
<p>“As <em> mine</em>.” </p>
<p>He holds your wrists above your head in one hand, the other gliding down, down, down your stomach, until his fingers meet the result of your arousal. </p>
<p>“So wet,” he mumbles, only half sure of what it means. He mimics your movements, gathering the slick at your entrance before gliding his fingers across your clit. You hum softly, but that’s not enough. Not for Kylo. Nowhere <em> near </em> enough. He grunts, shifting as he slides two fingers into you, not accounting for the fact that his hands are <em> far </em> larger than yours. The intrusion is a welcome one, and you sigh softly as he begins to move. He copies your position, moving his palm to rub against your clit with each thrust of his fingers. </p>
<p>“C-curl your fin-”</p>
<p>He does, rubbing against your front walls with the pads of his middle and index finger, his palm grinding earnestly against your clit. What little feigned composure you have left soon cracks and shatters like glass. Your eyes roll backward, your thighs tighten and convulse as the familiar sensation of an impending orgasm laps tauntingly at your senses. </p>
<p>“So good for me,” he murmurs in astonishment, watching as you writhe beneath him. So malleable, so compliant. Your body reacts to his every command, and he pulls and pulls and pulls at your will until you crumble for him. You throw your head back as your calves and thighs shake, your orgasm ripping violently through your core. He groans loudly, the dull aftershocks ripple through his skin as they do yours, and he knows now that your pleasure belongs to him, too. He withdraws his fingers, cautiously observing the slick that coats them. He wants to know you. <em> All </em> of you. He brings them to his mouth, sucking the remnants of your orgasm from his skin. He hums in contentment. </p>
<p>“You taste like you’re made for me.” </p>
<p>“Maybe I was,” you sigh, dizzy, still coming down from your high. He still has your wrists pinned above your head, and you push slightly at your restraints. </p>
<p>“No,” he murmurs. “If I let you go, keep them that way.” </p>
<p>You nod obediently, and he shifts, moving to remove his trousers. Your eyes remain fixed to his lower half, tensley awaiting the reveal you chastise yourself for anticipating. He moves off the bed for only a moment, stepping out of his confines. And really, he exceeds your expectations. Long and thick and <em> achingly </em> hard, precum oozing from his tip as he resumes his position above you. Your arms and fingers twitch as you refrain from reaching for him, though your obedience is ignored when he clasps a hand around your wrists once more. </p>
<p>Kylo knows, knows well that he’s large, but not the significance of it. Not how large in comparison to the average, not how thick or weighty he is. But he <em> does </em> know that he <em> belongs </em> inside of you, that his cum belongs deep in your core. He’s certainly not concerned about breaking you in half, splitting you open on his cock. In fact, he quite intends on it. </p>
<p>He sees what you want, what you so desperately and feverishly desire at the forefront of your mind. You push it to him, along your bond, and he moans softly at the thought. </p>
<p>“It might be quick, but that’s oka-”</p>
<p>He thrusts into you in one quick movement, almost punching the air out of your lungs. You gasp harshly, the force of it scratching your throat, and his body trembles as his head tips forward to rest against yours. His breathing, erratic and sharp, sounds in your ear. You hiss softly as your body stretches to accommodate his girth, and he rolls his hips impatiently. You’ve never felt so <em> full</em>. </p>
<p>“Fuck,” you whimper. “<em>Move</em>.” </p>
<p>He lets out a beastial groan as he draws out almost entirely, before slamming back into you again. He’s never felt so much at once, all of <em> you</em>, all of <em> him,</em> this combined, ferocious hurricane of pleasure tears through him without mercy. Your walls flutter around him, and he quickly releases your hands, moving now to grip the headboard as he sets a punishing pace. Your hands glide across his chest, moving then to his shoulders to anchor yourself. Your legs wrap around his waist, binding his body to yours. You almost shriek when he hits that bundle of tightly wrapped nerves nestled inside you, your heels digging into the small of his back. He growls, and he almost loses it - almost cums right there and then, and would have, too, only for the fact that the weight of his thrust, his grip on the headboard was too rough, too harsh. It cracks beneath his whitened knuckles, the wood splintering through his skin. It deters him for only a moment, but long enough to stall his release. His hips still momentarily, and when you startle at the sound, he hushes you, bringing his bloodied hand to rest against your cheek. He leans his weight on his free elbow, his nose nuzzling your hairline. </p>
<p>“Touch yourself,” he murmurs, dipping to kiss along the shell of your ear. “I want to watch you come apart again.” </p>
<p>You obey, your hand snake between your joined bodies and finds its way to your stiffened clit. He resumes his ruthless pace, his thrusts powerful and rough as he continues his assault on your g-spot. He bares his teeth as he groans, his body tensing as his release threatens. But then you’re scratching at his back, almost screaming as your second orgasm crashes through you like a violent wave, its onslaught causing your entire body to strain. The way your walls - so tight, so warm - clench and flutter around him rips his orgasm from him violently, and cums with a shout. His body shudders through it, his hand smearing blood all over your face as he heaves and shakes, almost blind with the force of it. His warm cum paints your insides, and you feel it as it spurts along your walls. You feel as though your muscles have liquified, and Kylo Ren has truly ravaged you, leaving only pliant skin and bone in the wake of his rampage. He blinks several times as his eyes readjust, his breathing settling as he leans back, taking in the sight before him.</p>
<p>Exposed, bare, tainted with his blood and full of his cum. Your eyes dark and heavy, skin shining with sweat. </p>
<p><em> Beautiful</em>.</p>
<p><em> Mine</em>. </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com">This is my tumblr</a>. I'm taking a short break (a couple of days) but feel free to follow or message and I'll get to you once I'm back.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Chapter Twenty-Five</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Kylo explores his sexuality, and does not hold back one bit. We love that for him. We'll move back to more in-depth plot in the next chapter. Please do heed the most recent tags, they apply heavily to this chapter.</p><p>Another lil reminder that I write, much to the dismay of my fiction professor, in second person omniscient. Hence the head-hopping.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“<em>Wedge </em>?”</p><p>You’re running. But your legs are heavy, weighing you down like lead as you try to push yourself forward through the thick brush. Your skin buzzes, tingling with a peculiar, numbing sensation as the barrage of the surrounding thorns and nettles draws spurts of blood from your calves. You’re panting, choking, desperate for air as your eyes frantically scan your surroundings in search of your friend, in search of <em> anyone</em>. But there’s nothing. No one. Just the deep dark of the forest, the still silence of the ancient, omniscient trees. The tenebrosity fragmented only by the faint glimmer of starlight - such an auspicious sight, so far out of your meek and helpless grasp. The looming height of the evergreens impedes on your senses, and then you’re falling, falling, falling falling - spiralling downward into a suspended sense of nothingness. You think, for a moment, that you must be dead. That the sweet release of death itself has been your only reprieve from the onslaught of your attempted escape. </p><p>Because death would be kinder. Anything would be kinder than <em> him</em>. </p><p>
  <em> “Did you think you could escape me so easily?” </em>
</p><p>You try in vain to open your eyes, but your eyelids are sewn firmly shut. You can only <em> feel </em> him, feel his presence, his wrath. His storm. </p><p>You try to scream, your mouth stretching open so wide that it aches, your chest burning with the effort as the sound dies in your throat. His hands are on you, then. Leather gloves tangling in your hair as he drags you backward, retreating to your dreaded confinement. You thrash blindly, legs kicking out as your heels drag along an invisible floor, your eyes still sealed firmly shut. </p><p><em> “How foolish of you to trust me,” </em>he tuts. He repeats your name, the word curling on his tongue, over and over and over until -</p><p> </p><p>“Wake <em> up</em>.”  </p><p>You jump awake, your eyes flying open as you wildly gulp for air. Kylo reaches for you, his hand only inches from your face before you smack it away. Your arms flail as you push yourself backward. He recoils, though his concern outdoes his offense. </p><p>“It was a nightmare,” he affirms, watching with intent consideration as your breathing begins to settle, and you realise that you’re back in his quarters, in his bed. “It wasn’t real. You’re safe.” </p><p>“I’m not safe,” you retort, running a hand over your face. You’re sweating, too hot, too uncomfortable in your own skin. It feels, almost, as though it’s too tight to contain you. Your organs feel constricted under the weight of your panic.  </p><p>“You’re safe with <em>me</em>,”  he moves an inch closer. “I need you to see that,” he dips his head slightly in an attempt to find your vacant stare. “<em>Please</em>.”</p><p>Your eyes finally meet his - deep and dark and <em> worried</em>. It rolls off him, his anxiety, his potent dread, his fear of rejection. Of <em> losing </em> you. He doesn’t miss how your demeanor softens, how the tension in your shoulders dwindles. How your breath falls back into its natural rhythm. </p><p>“Let me show you,” he reaches for you, cautiously at first, before he pulls you into his embrace. His nose nuzzles at your temple. “Relax,” he whispers, running a hand along your exposed spine as he presses you further into his body. Your mind whirs with anxiety, your fear still on it’s path to subsiding as you allow your body to sink into his. </p><p>
  <em> It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.  </em>
</p><p>Kylo hushes you. </p><p>“Quiet your mind.” </p><p>“I don’t know how,” your voice escapes you in a faint whine. Your throat is dry from sleep, aching for hydration. “I don’t know how to make it stop.” </p><p>His lips graze your temple, then your cheek, before they find their way to your lips. His kiss is soft, sensual. His tongue slides languidly against yours, and a large hand settles on the curve of your neck. He listens as the drone of your trepidatious thoughts begins to fade, and it dawns on him then, what it is that you need. What your body, what your <em> mind </em> seeks so desperately.</p><p>“I’ll make you forget,” he sighs into your mouth. “I’ll make sure all you can think of, all you can <em> feel </em> is me.”  </p><p>You whimper against his lips, the sound only encouraging him further. He has little conscious idea of what he’s doing, but his instinct - his primitive impulses - seems to work through an ancient muscle memory. His brief glimpses of your experience, of other men as they ran their hands along your bare skin, of how your body aches to be touched, where and <em> how</em>, circle in an endless loop. But only he will touch you, now. Only <em> he </em> will be privy to your wanton pleas, to the slick of your heat. Only <em> he </em> will bring you the release you crave. </p><p>His lips slide across your jaw, down your neck. His teeth scrape along your throat, and he bites down softly. You hiss, both in pleasure and in pain, but the sound is lost on Kylo. His eyes are trained to the indentation he’s left, little crescents in the wake of his crooked dentition. His chest rumbles with something akin to a growl at the realisation that he can mark you like this, that he can claim you with his tongue, his teeth, his blood. His cum. </p><p>“I’m going to make sure every soul that ever lays eyes on you knows exactly who you belong to,” he snarls, biting down hard on the opposite side of your neck. “Marked up and full of all of me.” </p><p>Your hips buck involuntarily against his thigh, your throbbing clit finding the friction it so direly needs. He hums as he feels the slick of your folds glide against his skin, eyes heavy and black with lust as he peers down at you. </p><p>“You like that,” he almost smirks, his voice deep and impossibly sultry. “You <em> want </em> it.” </p><p>And you do. <em>Shamefully</em>, you do. You’ve never experienced such a frenzied desire to be outright claimed, completely <em>possessed</em>, until this God, this <em> titan </em>, first laid his scarred skin against yours. </p><p>You nod timidly, almost apologetic for your immoral inclinations. Because this was supposed to be a <em> case.</em> You were never supposed to lay a hand on him, let alone allow him to marry you, fuck you, <em> dominate </em> you like he has. He shifts, his thigh slotting further between your legs, and his hands fly to your hips. He grinds you down against him, back and forth against his skin, your arousal sticky and hot against him. He doesn't know, really, doesn't understand why he craves it, why he wants this, but he does.</p><p>“Then that’s what you’ll get,” he grunts, quickly moving to straddle you, and you whine quietly from the loss of his touch. He leans back on his haunches to admire the decadent sight before him. A sight he’ll never tire of. Your bare skin, exposed and soft and ready for him, for his taking. His eyes shift to his left, the flicker of the candlelight catching his attention as it illuminates his discarded robes. His gaze falls to the sash that binds his day robes at the waist, and he quickly yanks it from it’s resting place among the disturbed mess of silk sheets and blood splatter. He lets the jersey fabric slide through his fingers, observing your doe-eyed disposition. How you look at him when you’re like this - it’s <em> religious</em>. Like he’s made of pure and solid gold, like he’s your deity, an immortal icon of your sacrilegious desire. </p><p>He leans forward, binding your wrists above your head, knotting the material and looping the excess around what’s left of the headboard. Satisfied with his work, he turns his attention to his hand, lightly bandaged from the night before. He unwraps the dressing, carelessly discarding the blood soaked gauze. He pries at the flesh, the fresh and still-forming scab splitting beneath his fingertips, blood rushing to the surface and dripping from his palm. His eyes flick to yours for only a moment before he drags his bloodied palm along your stomach, smearing the fluid across your breasts, your sternum, your neck, until he reaches your mouth. Your heart hammers in your chest, instinctively allowing your legs to fall open, hips gyrating against him as he dips two blood-soaked fingers into your mouth. A quiet gasp escapes him, because you’re so good, so <em> perfect </em> with how you arch your back, with how you moan into his skin as you relish the metallic taste of him. He squeezes at his wound, a fresh trickle of crimson fluid seeps across your lips. </p><p>This is more than just possession, now, Kylo realises. Wounds once battered and beat into his skin by rough, calloused hands, now hold new meaning. Blood once meant only death, only fury - but now, now it’s something else. Now, it’s <em> yours</em>. You possess him wholly, as he does you, and he’d bleed himself dry if it meant you could taste it, feed from it, take him as yours. Reclaim him from Snoke’s smothering grasp, from The Order, from the throne. Let him live for you, for these moments and these moments alone, where his roaring, tempestuous mind finds quiet in your submission. </p><p>He withdraws his fingers, moving to place the palm of his hand just millimeters from your drooling lips. The gash spans the entire width of it, and it oozes as he pinches the skin again. Your tongue darts out to slide along the wound, lapping at the split and torn skin, drinking down his essence with such eager concentration. </p><p>“So beautiful,” he murmurs, half to himself. “So exquisite.” </p><p>His blood dribbles down your chin, and you can’t imagine another moment in life where you felt so utterly desperate, so pathetically hungry for a man’s praise and adoration. He watches as your body writhes in need below him, hips seeking friction against his. His hand retreats, sliding between your bodies until the pads of his fingers graze against your clit. Any uncertainty, any doubt that he had about where to touch you subsides as you mewl, soft and so, so <em> sweet </em>. His blood mixes with your slick, and he peers down to watch as your folds drip with the concoction. He groans at the sight, and you tug slightly on your restraints as you itch to touch him, to run your hands down the broad expanse of his back, to tug at his hair until he fucks you. Kylo’s forehead drops to rest against yours as he tuts, his breathing heavy as his cock throbs and aches to be sheathed inside you. </p><p>“So impatient,” he mumbles, moving to suckle at your jaw. “Needy little thing.” </p><p>A hypocritical statement, he knows, as he resists the urge to thrust into you right there and then. He needs, though, to hear you say it. He needs to hear that you want him. That you <em> crave </em> him. That you desire him in ways no one else ever has.  </p><p>“Tell me what you need,” his breath comes quicker now, and he presses your clit into your pubic bone as he massages it. “Tell me what you want.” </p><p>“Y-you,” you sigh, your head lolling to the side in contented pleasure. “Inside of me.” </p><p>He reaches down, wrapping his bleeding hand around his length and coating it in his blood, hissing at the contact. Without waiting a second longer, he spears himself inside you, his chest heaving as you stretch to accommodate his girth without preparation. It burns, but the pain only spurs you on, tugging harshly at your bindings as your hands itch to grab him. He takes your jaw in one hand, forcing your eyes to meet his as he begins to thrust, his pace immediately punishing, merciless. And oh, does he <em> glow</em>. The flicker of the candlelight illuminates his skin, painting it in soft shades of apricot and tangerine. His chest and cheeks are flushed a pinkish red, gleaming with sweat, his lips damp and swollen. He hears each quiet observation as you think, and he squeezes your jaw tighter as he breathes your name. </p><p>He’s a sight to behold. Your God. Your leader. Your -</p><p>“Yours,” he pants. “<em>Yours</em>.” </p><p>He withdraws his hips, slamming back into you brutally hard. He moves his hand to your throat, curling his fingers around your neck, and you bite your lip in anticipation. You need this, you do. You’ve never yearned for such complete command, such dominance. And Kylo knows it, can feel it as your mind becomes numb, television static, as he begins to squeeze. You surrender to him, relinquishing the control you have over your body, your mind. You let him steal your composure, your anxieties, your fears. You let him annihilate them, crush them with his hands, his cock, his mouth. </p><p>“That’s it,” he grunts, hips pulverising yours as he fucks you, so thorough, so <em> deep</em>. “Give it to me. Let me take it.” </p><p>
  <em> Tighter, tighter.  </em>
</p><p>Your strong facade, your determination, your purpose, crumbles, falling at his feet, until all that’s left is him. <em> Him, him, him. </em> Your breath now comes in short, shallow gasps, and Kylo moans loudly as his hips lose rhythm. He’s entranced by the picture before him - engrossed by your subservience. </p><p>“You’re so <em> warm</em>,” he hisses. “So tight around me.”</p><p>He tries, desperately so, to hold onto his composure, to stave off his imminent eruption until you’re shaking and sobbing beneath him. Bloodied, pliant, <em> his</em>. </p><p>Your mind chants his name in an endless loop, your vision obscured now by unshed tears of pleasure as your release begins to build. He tilts your hips, and his lower abdomen slams against your clit with every uneven thrust. Your moans and shrieks come in silent chokes, your walls clamping down on him as your orgasm crests. Your calves seize up as your back arches further into his grasp, and Kylo is only seconds behind - two, three, four more thrusts until he’s shouting with his release, ferociously fucking his cum and blood deep, deep, deeper, until his hips finally still. He shakily releases his grip on your windpipe, and the stale, cold air hits your lungs like a crashing wave. Your lungs burn with it as you cough, gulping down each breath faster than your body can handle. </p><p>Pulling away, Kylo squeezes his wound once more, tilting your head to the side to expose your neck as he collects drops of deep, dark blood on the tip of his index finger. His breath still comes in deep, laboured pants, his skin dripping with sweat as he looms over you. He runs his bloodied finger softly along the column of your throat. You look at him in question, brows raised curiously. You can feel that he’s writing, spelling something on your skin, as he’d done the night before. </p><p>“Mine,” he states plainly, still buried inside you. “<em>Mine.</em>”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I really went off with the bloodplay and possession kink in this one, huh. Whoops. Anyway, plot will return next chapter. Our poor boy just had a whole lifetime of fucking to make up for. </p><p> </p><p><a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">this is my tumblr</a>. I'm currently on hiatus and my ask box is temporarily closed, but you can find links to my discord over there.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Chapter Twenty-Six</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><i>Olys Corellisi</i>- Old Corellian. Yes, I am bringing Star Wars languages into this, because I have a kink for Kylo being a big smarty pants. </p>
<p><i>Chumani</i> - Friend. What the FO calls its followers.<br/><i>Khoehng</i> - King.<br/><i>Min</i> - My/mine.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The water is scalding hot, just as you like it. You wonder, oftentimes, if this is considered a luxury in these parts. If Kylo was afforded the pleasantries of the mundane, such as hot showers, before your arrival. </p>
<p>You watch as the water taints with red, swirling around the drain by your feet. The bathroom isn’t large - it’s marginally small, with only a toilet, sink and shower. Two sconce’s are placed at either side of the door, the small room illuminated only by the candles that burn within. The tiles are a pitiful, faded shade of turquoise green, sporadic brown tiles interspersed between them, and it reminds you of something you’d see on an old seventies sitcom. The grout seems new, though the tiles are dirty, some are even cracked and appear used, as though they’d been chipped off another wall. The sink is missing its porcelain pillar, the rusted trap and tailpiece exposed to the thick, steamy air. There’s no mirror, and you’re glad for it, really. You can’t imagine how you must look after spending so long away from your regular comforts - you never thought you’d miss a bottle of face wash <em> this </em> much. </p>
<p>The door creaks as it opens, and you hear footsteps pad across the contrasting white tile of the floor. </p>
<p>Kylo steps in behind you, boundaries once so pertinent to his existence now dissipate, leaving only a shared sense of intimacy, of unstable dependency that’s viable to erupt at any given moment. You realise, now, how quickly he has managed to shift. By becoming so close to you, by <em> fucking </em> you, by half drowning you in his blood - an evolution has been triggered. One that you could see, now that you think of it, blossoming inside all along. Photosynthesis. You were the light, the sustenance he needed to plunge further and further into the blackened abyss that lives inside him, that molds him. </p>
<p>An obscurity, a darkness in his soul that festered and grew with every bruise, with every scar, with every twisted word from Snoke’s mouth that Kylo thought was love. The man who stands behind you now, his calloused hands roaming across your stomach, your hips, your thighs - he is not the man you’ve come to save. Ben Solo is long dead, a mere ghost that wanders the compound halls. You may catch a glimpse of him, sometimes. But the boy that was, is now no more. </p>
<p>“You don’t look like the photos,” You say absently, tipping your head back against his sturdy chest. Kylo doesn’t know what you mean. He doesn’t know what a photograph is, or why he should look like one. But he listens, all the same. “They tried to figure out what you’d look like as a kid. But they got your nose wrong.”</p>
<p>“My nose?” He muses, running his hands along your arms. </p>
<p>“I think they expected you to look…” <em> Like your mother. </em> You let the words die on your tongue, and you can feel it, his distraction. He’s too taken with the sensation of soap gliding along your skin to be listening, to be prodding through your thoughts. “Different. They gave you a small nose.” </p>
<p>“<em>Should </em> it be small?” Kylo bends, nuzzling against your ear, arms constricting around your front. You smile softly, craning your neck to peer up at him through wet lashes. You realise he has little idea of physical self-consciousness, and you're glad for it.</p>
<p>“No,” you smile, reaching up to run a finger along the length of his aquiline nose. “It’s perfect the way it is.” </p>
<p>He hums, and you spin around in his embrace, pressing your chest against his. He runs a hand along your back, attempting to bring you impossibly closer, relishing in how your nipples graze across his dripping skin. </p>
<p>“It could work to your advantage,” your say, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. Though wet, it feels odd, almost sticky, and you wonder if he knows how to <em> really </em> wash it. </p>
<p>“How is that?” </p>
<p>“It’s hard to explain, Kylo,” you press a kiss against his bicep as it curls around your shoulder. “But if you ever leave this place, if anyone finds out about Cardo, about the others….They could try to send you away.”</p>
<p>“They?”</p>
<p>“Police, the law. They guard society on the outside. At least,” you bite softly at your lip. “They’re <em> supposed </em> to.” </p>
<p>Kylo reaches for your jaw, tilting your head to meet his gaze.</p>
<p>“Nothing will take me from you,” he whispers, just loud enough to be heard above the running water. “<em>Nothing</em>, my <em> turhaya.”  </em></p>
<p>“Turhaya,” you repeat, mouth curving into a smile. “What does that mean?” </p>
<p>“Snoke writes in our language sometimes,” Kylo runs a finger along your jaw. “He calls it Olys Corellisi. <em> Turhaya </em> means <em> bright star</em>.” </p>
<p>“Why haven’t you ever spoken in this language before?” You ask, now suddenly interested in the connotations of the compound having its own language. Or <em> several</em>. </p>
<p>“Because you wouldn’t understand me.”</p>
<p>A quiet laugh escapes you, and Kylo cocks an eyebrow in suspicion. You feel a pang of rejection radiate from his core, and it breaks your heart, as it so often does, how quickly he’ll assume the worst after allowing himself the quiet pleasure of opening up. </p>
<p>“I’m not laughing at you, I think that word is beautiful, and I hope you speak that language a little more around me,” you kiss at his bicep again, lingering a moment longer this time. “I just like how you’re teaching <em> me </em> words, now.” </p>
<p>He smiles softly, dipping down to suck at your neck. He backs you against the shower wall, the cool tile shocking to your warm, wet skin. </p>
<p>“You teach me a great deal,” he whispers, lapping at the underside of your jaw. “I can only attempt to teach you half as much.” </p>
<p>You reach up to tangle a hand in his hair, forcing him to bend almost down to your height. </p>
<p>“You can teach me whatever you’d like, but I have something to teach <em> you </em> first.” </p>
<p>Kylo tuts. </p>
<p>“I know, the Knight’s noticed it, too.” </p>
<p>He sounds almost ashamed, and you kiss his forehead, taking advantage of his position. </p>
<p>“Well, they should have taught you.” </p>
<p>You fumble for the shampoo bottle - a bulky, white thing. It has no label, simply the word ‘SHAMPOO’ written in block capitals with what you can only assume is sharpie. You’re deeply surprised at the presence of a similar container, ‘CONDITIONER’ scrawled across it’s neck. You show Kylo the first bottle, ensuring he reads the word before squeezing the viscous substance into your palm. </p>
<p>“This goes first,” you say, massaging it into his hair. Your nails drag across his scalp, and Kylo’s hands shoot to grab your waist. You hear it, the quiet growl that he attempts to suppress. You smirk, scratching at his skull a second time. His hips buck, his cock twitches, and his grip on your skin becomes bruising. He says your name in warning, the deep baritone stirring a fluttering reaction in your gut. </p>
<p><em> Butterflies</em>, you muse. It’s been a long time since you felt them like this. </p>
<p>You guide his head under the stream, the water rinsing away grime and grit. You point to the conditioner bottle. </p>
<p>“Did the Knights ever use that on you?” </p>
<p>“No,” he states, rising to his full height. He traps you against the wall once again, palms finding the flesh of your hips. His lips crash against yours, hot and rough and commanding in that way you know Kylo has come to be. You sigh into his mouth, contented, but sensitive. Over stimulated and overworked, your neck still throbbing and tender. You push him back slightly, breaking the kiss, and Kylo looks at you in question. </p>
<p>“I want to try something,” you murmur, dropping to your knees, the steady thrum of the water battering against your spine. Kylo’s eyes widen as you align yourself with his already hard member. You watch as it drools with precum, flushed red and angry and begging for your lips, for your mouth, for your <em> throat</em>. Kylo, though, has little idea of what you intend to do, and he moves a hand to your cheek.</p>
<p>“What is this?” He asks, running a thumb along your bottom lip. </p>
<p>“For you,” you look up at him, doe eyed and innocent. He feels himself falter, feels his gut clench with the weight of what you do to him - this causatum, this cataclysmic reaction to every glance, every touch, every ounce of anything you’re generous enough to offer him. He’ll take it. Take every last drop of your sincerity and adoration, and he’ll <em> savour </em> it. Treasure it. Nurture it until it grows, until it ripens into something darker, something powerful that he’ll cultivate. He’s sure of it - you’ll thrive under his love, you’ll fuel his power, and he will be forever devoted to your grace. </p>
<p>You lean forward, placing an open mouthed kiss against his leaking head. He jolts, his breath hitching in his throat. He wants to speak, wants to ask you what you’re doing, but words escape him entirely when you slide your mouth along the length of him, taking him all the way to the back of your throat. He lets out a loud, languid groan, bucking himself as deep as he can go, not realising that he’s stirring your gag-reflex. You choke on him, tears brimming and spilling along your cheeks, but you persist. Kylo is transfixed, eyes glued to your mouth, how you take him, swallowing him down. He thumbs your tears away with a trembling hand, his chest heaving as you begin to bob on his cock. Your tongue laps at the underside, tracing along a protruding vein, and he shudders, fucking your throat in earnest. His breathing is heavy, fast, and you can hear quiet little moans slip from between his lips, barely audible over the lashing droplets that cascade against your skin. He knows he can’t hold on, that he can’t stave off his release - not with your hot, wet mouth around him like this, sucking on his head, drool slipping past your lips and dribbling down your chin. </p>
<p>“Look at me,” he pants, his grip tightening on your jaw. “<em>Now</em>, look at me.” </p>
<p>And you do - eyes gleaming under the flickering candlelight, hair dripping wet, unshed tears balancing precariously on your waterlines. <em> Beautiful</em>. </p>
<p>His hips stutter, his jaw falling slack as he roars, hot ropes of cum spurting down your throat as he continues to fuck into your mouth, riding on the bliss of his release. Kylo braces a palm on the wet tile, fighting to catch his breath as you stand. You run a hand along his side, feeling how the muscles twitch beneath your touch. </p>
<p>“The water will get cold,” you chirp. </p>
<p>He moves, then, turning to face you as you step out of the shower. The cool air shocks your skin, and you clamour for the first towel that you see. White, fluffy, clean. You wish, truly, you do, that you knew who replaced them. You beckon at Kylo to come closer. </p>
<p>“Here,” you pass him a second, smaller towel. “Rub your hair with it, it’ll stop it dripping on your clothes. I know you hate that."</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p>The bedroom is cold, as it always is. Goosebumps litter your arms as you sit on the bed, straightening out your day robes. Your bodies are still dripping wet, towels secured tightly around your shivering bodies, when there’s a loud, intrusive thump on the door. Kylo grunts, not quite grasping the concept of social niceties, and opens the door, his towel draped loosely around his hips. Armitage averts his gaze, and the blinding white light of the hallway spills into your quarters, illuminating Kylo in an effulgent, abstract sort of glow. </p>
<p>“Supreme Leader,” Hux begins, eyes trained to the safety of the floor. “Your presence is required on the throne.” </p>
<p>Kylo nods curtly, offering no response. He moves to shut the door, but Armitage wedges his foot swiftly between the frame and the threshold. </p>
<p>“<em>She </em> will also be required, sir.” </p>
<p>“Said who?” Kylo muses, clicking his tongue. “Am I not the one in charge?” “You are, sir,” Hux nods to you again. “But have you forgotten how much there is to do before Leader Snoke’s return? You’ll have much to explain to the <em> Chumani</em>,” he finally meets Ren’s stare, and he nervously swallows. “Besides, she has to learn her place. Her title, her <em> duties</em>.”</p><hr/>
<p>Kylo Ren is a sight to behold in and of itself - charcoal hair that sweeps along his shoulders, still slightly damp and dewy. His full lips settle into an unconscious pout, stern yet commanding. His fresh, regal robes - <em> Khoehng </em> robes, as he calls them - sweep along the floor, his cowl covering much of his neck. But to put him on a throne, bearing a sword tight in his leather clad hands - it stirs a disturbing reaction in you. One, you’re <em> sure </em> you shouldn’t be capable of. A deity and his loyal devotee. And despite it all, despite your awe, your reverence, there’s something else. Something deeper, something paramount that rests among the virulence of your adoration. </p>
<p><em> Fear</em>. </p>
<p>Of him. Of yourself. Of what you desire. Of what you fear you cannot do. </p>
<p>You stand obediently at his side, listening as Hux rattles off rules, regulations, expectations of a future <em> Empress</em>. Of First Order <em> royalty</em>. Ranks, terms, conditions. Who goes by general, who goes by commander, who goes by lord. </p>
<p>You make a fair attempt to listen, though your mind soon becomes foggy. Distracted with images of the Supreme Leader, <em> your </em> leader, shuddering above you, his hand tightening around your throat, his groans as he - </p>
<p>“Are you listening?” Hux demands, stepping closer to you. Kylo shifts, directing his sword to lay between you and Armitage, a silent warning to come no further. </p>
<p>“Yes, you said I’m expected to wear the correct attire in the throne room.” </p>
<p>“What you’re wearing is not appropriate,” he gestures to your day robes. “But we’re still tailoring your regal robes.” </p>
<p>You nod, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. </p>
<p>“The Knights are expecting a debriefing on Cardo’s death,” Hux suddenly changes the subject matter, stepping toward Kylo.</p>
<p>“You told them?” </p>
<p>“I didn’t have much of a choice, his absence was clearly noted.” </p>
<p>Kylo is silent for a moment, withdrawing his sword to let it sit upright between his legs, piercing the rug beneath his throne. He leans his weight on the hilt, driving it further into the fabric at his feet.</p>
<p>“Their reaction?”</p>
<p>“Remarkably mixed,” Hux mumbles. “I’m not sure he was very much loved among them.”</p>
<p>“He wasn’t,” Kylo replies plainly. “He won’t be missed, that’s not any cause for concern.” </p>
<p>“It’s the suspicion,” Armitage affirms. “I know.” </p>
<p>“What about Snoke?” You interject, your stomach suddenly heaving with the thought of the consequences Kylo may bear for his actions. The life he took. For <em> you</em>. </p>
<p>“I’ll deal with him,” he sits straighter, fist clenching around the hilt of his sword. “Don’t worry about that, <em>min</em> <em>turhaya.”</em></p>
<p>There’s a thud as the double doors fly open, light spilling into the dimly lit room for only a few moments as the Knight’s spill in. Another man follows, stepping around them. </p>
<p>“The Knights, <em> sir</em>,” he says, striding calmly ahead to stand beside Hux. The five men form a straight line, kneeling before Kylo’s throne with bowed heads. </p>
<p>“Thank you, Commander Dameron,” Kylo nods, rising to his feet. He paces before the men, and he feels it, for once - power, <em> command </em> over their beings. He can, and will, twist them to his will, as they have done to him so many times before. He'll bend them to his mercy, and he'll be glad to watch them scream.</p>
<p>“Cardo is dead,” he begins, cutting straight to the point. You have little idea of the preparation he’s done for this moment, if any, and you hold your breath as the Knight’s lift their hooded head’s to regard him. “He, as he often did, got too rough with a <em> chumani</em>. He was attacked by their comrades in retaliation.” </p>
<p>The Knights are silent, nodding in acceptance. Trudgen, though, remains still. His eyes move from Kylo, to you, and then back again. </p>
<p>“Has Leader Snoke been informed?” Trudgen’s voice is steely, cold. “Of his son’s death?” </p>
<p>“We have no way to reach him while he’s off compound grounds,” Hux quickly interjects. “He’ll be notified as soon as he returns.” </p>
<p>“You’re dismissed,” Kylo mutters. “Return to your scheduled duties.” </p>
<p>The Knights are quick to disperse, though Trudgen lingers for a moment, stepping toward the throne. His jaw clenches, teeth grinding as he clenches a fist in frustration. </p>
<p>“And what of the <em> chumani </em> who did this?” </p>
<p>“They’ve been taken care of,” Kylo assures, his voice calm. </p>
<p>“Their names?” </p>
<p>“I know you were close,” Kylo returns to his seat. “But allowing any acts of vengeance to fall on what’s left of that family would make me a poor Leader. And you, a poor Knight, would it not?” </p>
<p>“The names won’t be released to ensure their protection,” Armitage steps forward, almost chest to chest with the Knight, an act of bravery you’d yet to see from the pale, scrawny general. He’d been <em> sure </em> to let you know of his rank during his diligent speech. “I believe the Supreme Leader gave you an order.” </p>
<p>Trudgen swallows, bowing his head once in Kylo’s direction before striding toward the doors. A brief silence follows the slam that announces the Knight’s exit. You hope, perhaps in vain, that Trudgen simply grieves his friend, and that any infractions of loyalty won’t be suspected. Kylo lays a hand on your shoulder, leaning forward slightly. </p>
<p>“The General will escort you back. Wait for me in bed,” he murmurs. “You should rest.” </p><hr/>
<p>    You fall in and out of uncomfortable sleep - images of blood, of Kylo, of <em> you </em> haunting your dreams. Screams of pain, pleas for mercy. You’re falling again, spinning and twirling through cool air until you land unceremoniously in a sharp, dense thicket. You can feel the thorns scratch against your skin, feel the sting of the nettles as they assault your limbs. The forest is dark, as it always is in these dreams, and you’re heavy, weighted as you stand. But then you’re sprinting, your breath coming in short, sharp pants. You can hear her, that airy voice, that kind tone as she sings your name - over and over and <em> over</em>. Your heart races as you run from a woman you should be running <em> to </em>, your hands grasping and clamouring for leather bound arms. </p>
<p>You wake one final time, jumping when you feel a set of hands push you down into the mattress. It dips as a weight shifts further onto the bed. </p>
<p>“Quiet, now,” Kylo coos. “It’s just me.” </p>
<p>His bare skin glides against the silk of your nightdress, and he slides his hands beneath it, pushing it up toward your chest. He kisses along your jaw, your eyelids as they flutter shut once more. </p>
<p>“<em>Min Larel</em>,” he whispers, shifting downward, kissing along your sternum as he moves down the bed. </p>
<p>Kylo mouths at the skin of your hips, hands roaming to settle against your ribs. </p>
<p>“I came here to do something,” you sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Something I thought was important. I think...I think it was something I would have died for.”</p>
<p>Kylo mumbles something incoherent into your skin, teeth scraping along your naval. </p>
<p>“But now,” you continue, your vacant gaze settling on the ceiling. “I don’t think I can do it.” </p>
<p>“Say it,” he murmurs, lifting himself so that his face hovers over yours. The brown of his eyes has dissipated, leaving only deep, black pools in their place. The acerbity of his tone tells you that he knows, and knows well, exactly what it is that you’re feeling. “Say it out loud.” </p>
<p>His expression is blank, mostly unreadable, though his eye twitches, his muscles tense. He moves a hand to wrap around your jaw, squeezing your cheeks between his thumb and index finger. “<em>Say </em> it,” his tone is softer now, pleading, almost, and he shakes your jaw slightly in impatience. </p>
<p>“I don’t want to leave.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I, apparently, can no longer write a chapter without Kylo getting his dick out at least once, lmfao. And as for the ending - just trust me.</p>
<p> </p>
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  <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">tumblr.</a>
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        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Chapter Twenty-Seven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Originally, this chapter was upward of 3.7K words and wasn't close to being finished. So I had to cut it off here. The rest will be posted during the week. The next will be up, most likely, within the week. Highly, highly inspired by the song Reflection by Balance and Composure. Any of you who follow TC’s playlist may already be familiar.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’re not sure where you are. </p><p>It’s cold. <em> Bone-chilling </em> cold - the kind that really sinks deep, deep into your veins, the kind that bites at your skin in merciless strikes. The limestone walls that surround you do little to insulate you, and the bitter sting of the cool air assails your bare arms. You’re barefoot, you realise. Pools of freezing water form beneath your feet, and you jolt with the shock of how it almost numbs your toes. </p><p>What little light there is shines through an opening near the ceiling of what you now realise is a cave. Sunshine glitters along the calcite deposits that encircle the intrusive stalactites that drip from above. You pad forward, careful not to knock against the delicate speleothems.</p><p>A sound - <em> a voice? </em> - echoes through the silent space, rippling through the stagnant air. Your name. Again, again, and again - a hoarse whisper, a voice you recognise but can’t quite place in your misty, dazed state. Panic - and reason, seemingly - escapes you entirely. A calm, serene haze encompasses you, shielding you from rationale, from logic. You feel it in your lungs as you breathe - this deep, sedated sense. </p><p>Your feet begin to move, then, seemingly of their own accord. Pulled inexplicably toward the deepest caverns of the cave, the light quickly becomes swallowed by the encroaching darkness. You blink once, twice, three times, in an attempt to be sure that your eyes are open at all. You move to stretch your arms out before you - a hopeful attempt to keep your skull from colliding with stone and mineral. But your efforts are feeble, your limbs remaining stiff and unmovable at your sides. You can no longer feel the stab of pebbles beneath your feet, or the frigid burn of the murky water. Your feet glide inches above the ground, frosty air circling around your heels as your body is gently and effortlessly pulled forward by a force you’re glad to be blind to. </p><p>A light finds you then. Distant, but bright - ultraviolet, almost. It beams, guiding your form toward deliverance. You wonder, momentarily, if you’re dead. If your soul has transcended its physical being, and has embarked upon its journey to the unknown. You’d fret, if you could, you’d <em> resist</em>. But your muscles remain possessed, beyond your body’s control, and your mind remains glazed in peaceful stupor. </p><p>The light is closer, now - and you squint, your retinas burning, eyelids straining with the strength of it. You squeeze your eyes shut, the brilliance of it warming your face, the prickling chill of the air blossoming into an insufferable heat. </p><p>And then you’re on your knees, and it’s cold again. Your muscles return to their natural state - aching from the rigorous form they’d been forced into. Your knees are wet, grazed from the impact of your graceless drop, the hem of your nightdress weighted and damp. Your eyes flutter open, and the light has dulled significantly. Your gaze moves from the uneven ground, up, up, until your eyes are met with pristine, shining glass. A mirror, a reflection. But they’re not <em>your</em> knees that  your eyes have settled on - they’re not bare or bleeding, as yours are now. They’re clothed, clad in black, and as your eyes move further up the figure echoed before you, you come to recognise them. The plains of their clothed chest, the slope of their shoulders, the slant of their nose, the waves of obsidian that frame their pallid face. Their eyes meet yours, and a distorted, mechanical voice reverberates through the cavern.</p><p>“<em>Mine</em>.”</p>
<hr/><p>He’s the first thing you see when you open your eyes. The left side of his face illuminated by flickering candlelight, stray strands of hair curl around his forehead. He’s at his desk, scribbling away on his paper, and you can hear the steady thrum of his consciousness as he empties his mind. </p><p>It’s the <em> stillness</em>.</p><p>The silence. The darkness of a windowless room, a soundless void. A timeless vacuum of nothing in particular. Only faint echoes of the dripping tap from the bathroom, the scratch of a pen against parchment, Kylo’s quiet, steady breath. </p><p>The days bleed together here. You’re never quite sure if you’re sleeping at night, or during the day. Your concept of time hangs upon the actions of others, and oftentimes, it feels as though most of it is spent fucking or dreaming. And there’s a certain comfort to it. A certain solace in the knowledge that there’s no bills to pay, no errands to run, no money to make. No job expects your presence, your labour, your time. Your life is reduced only to your basic, primal desires. To love, to be loved, to writhe in pleasure at the hands of a man who both terrifies and enraptures you. At least, that’s what you tell yourself, when you recoil at the thought of stepping outside the walls that entrap you. To ponder it, to actually attempt to reason with yourself as to why and how you could allow yourself to fall into the very trap you’d been trained to avoid, would certainly be catastrophic - not only to your dignity, but to the frailty of your psyche. </p><p>You shift, sitting up slightly. </p><p>You see it, then. Leaning proudly against the wall between the door and the bathroom, its presence an ominous one in your once-safe bedroom. It’s at least your height, though quite narrow, and framed with silver adornations that glint in the honeyed glow of the room. </p><p>“What’s that?” You croak, your voice hoarse from a deep sleep. Kylo doesn’t look up.</p><p>“A mirror.” </p><p>“No, I know what it is,” you sit up straight, pressing yourself against the still-splintered headboard. “What’s it doing here?” </p><p>Kylo ignores your question, finally turning to observe you. </p><p>“Is it a problem?”</p><p>“I dreamt of a mirror,” you murmur, leaning away so as to avoid the glass from picking up your sordid reflection. He cocks an eyebrow.</p><p>“Maybe you heard me thinking of it,” he turns back to his parchment for only a moment, before dropping his pen. He shifts in his chair to face you. “Why are you moving away from it?” </p><p>“I don’t want to look at myself,” you state simply, sliding off the bed. Kylo catches your arm as you attempt to pass - his grip firm, fingertips pressing deep into the soft skin of your upper arm. </p><p>“Why?” </p><p>“Do I have to answer that?” </p><p>He rises to his feet, his jaw set, molars grinding. You feel it - the anger, the frustration that rolls through your body from his. He drags you forward, and you pull back against him. </p><p>“Kylo, I said I don’t wa-”</p><p>“Stop,” he hisses, grabbing your other arm and forcing it behind your back. He pushes you forward, and you childishly toss your head back and to the side, pressing your eyes shut. </p><p>“<em>Petulant</em>,” he mumbles, propelling you in the direction of the mirror. He brings a hand to your jaw, forcing you to face forward. “Open your eyes.” </p><p>You inhale, an attempt to calm yourself. </p><p>“<em>Open </em> them,” he commands, freeing your arms so they fall naturally by your sides. </p><p>Your eyes find him, first, as they always seem to do. Stern, yet emperyal. The shadow of the room casts a darkness over the right side of his face, his hazel eyes shining golden-yellow. His hand rests on your shoulder, and he dips down to speak into your ear. </p><p>“See yourself,” he tightens his grip on your jaw. “See yourself as I see you.” </p><p>But all you can see is a weak-willed girl, a feeble, fragile soul. A dismal excuse for a former police officer, for a friend, for a daughter - for a person who couldn’t do the one thing she’d tasked herself.</p><p><em> Rookie</em>. </p><p>“I don’t know how,” you manage, eyeing the lifeless, dead woman that stares back at you. He tilts your chin, toward him, this time. His kiss is soft, gentle in comparison to the crushing grip he maintains on your face. His tongue trails along your lips, and you melt into him, bones practically liquefying as you let him keep you steady. He pulls away only enough to speak, his breath cool against your wet lips.</p><p>“Then let me show you.”</p><p>He moves around you, seizing the mirror and stalking toward the bed. He places it against the wall adjacent to the mattress, then sits, shifting himself slightly backward into the silk sheets. He beckons you to follow. And, like a desperate waif, you do. </p><p>He pulls you between his legs, spreading yours open as he does. You look just right here, he thinks. Pulled flush with his chest, lips swollen and dewey with spit, the straps of your nightdress hanging off your shoulders. </p><p>“So beautiful,” he murmurs, resting his chin in the crook of your neck. His hands move up your thighs, so slowly, so <em> achingly </em> slowly. He watches, eyes trained on your reflection as your muscles twitch beneath his fingers, your entire body reacting to even the lightest, simplest touch. You tremble in his hands, holding your breath as Kylo drags the silk fabric of your nightwear up, up, up, his hands dragging along your stomach, your chest, until you’re bare. Exposed for him, opened for him, <em> dripping </em> for him. You’d be ashamed, were it anyone else, with how wet you are without being touched. But your body, it reacts to him in ways you’re not sure you’ll ever comprehend - you <em> burn</em>, a blazing inferno, stoked and maintained by his presence. He’s the gasoline that sets you alight, the oxygen that finances your flames. </p><p>He discards the garment carelessly, tossing it into the darkness that engulfs the rest of the room. His lips cascade along your neck, his hair falling forward and dancing along your collarbones. </p><p>He has every intention to take his time with you. To watch you as you split and crack, your composure shattering under his fingertips. He has every intention of <em> breaking </em> you. </p><p>“I want to understand,” his lips dance across the shell of your ear as he speaks, his hands moving to spread your legs further apart. “<em>Everything </em> about you,” two fingers glide through your folds - already so wet, so <em> ready</em>. You whine, your head tipping back against his chest, your hips bucking into his hand. He hums in satisfaction. He finds your clit with ease - he knows, now, that this is where you want him, where you crave him. He rubs against it, the calloused pads of his fingers moving in soft, tight circles. </p><p>“This feels good, doesn’t it?” </p><p>He can feel it, your pleasure, as it simmers inside you. He feels the warmth spread across your skin, feels the echoes of bliss, the moans that die in your throat. You nod feverishly, and he brings his free hand to cradle your jaw, firmly guiding your gaze back toward the mirror. </p><p>“I want you to watch me,” he murmurs. He wants you to <em> see </em> what he does to you, how he moulds and bends you to his will. He wants you to watch him as he explores every last part of you, every last slither of space on your delicate skin. He still can’t fathom it, really. That you’re <em> his</em>. That he, and he alone, can make you feel like this. </p><p>He moves down, dipping two fingers inside your entrance, and already, you’re so <em> full</em>. He knows what to do with your guidance, with your thoughts, your memories that flitter along your bond. Though he feigns a level of confidence, of assured equanimity, that he needs no assistance. That he knows, and knows well, exactly what your body needs. And he will, in time. Of this, he’s sure. He’s committed to it, to ensuring every touch, every moan he pulls from you becomes bound to his memory. </p><p>He crooks his fingers, gently rocking in and out, in and out. The heel of his palm grinds against your clit, and it’s so swollen, so <em> needy</em>. You gyrate against it, whimpering as your hands fly to grip at the flesh of his thighs. Kylo hushes you, his hand still firmly encasing your jaw. </p><p>“You’ll get what you want,” he breathes, keeping his steady pace. He’s spent enough time burrowing through the tunnels of your mind, sifting through your thoughts, your memories, your fantasies. Each night, as you dream, as you fall into illusory worlds, he uncovers your darkest desires. And despite his position, despite his power, Kylo Ren is, at his root, just a man. A man all too greedy, all too eager, to make those desires a reality. He feels you contract, clenching on his fingers, and he marvels at the image before him - your hips rolling frantically against his palm, your teeth scraping along your bottom lip. Your orgasm comes suddenly, far sooner than you’d expected, and you whine loudly, your breathing coming in short, sharp pants.</p><p>“Look at you,” he murmurs, his eyes raking along your reflection as you convulse in his grasp. “Look at how you’re made for me.” </p><p>He carries you through it, infatuated with the sight of you, the <em> feel </em> of you. When your breathing settles, he pulls away, shifting onto his knees. He strips himself of his robes, and you’re fixated with his reflection - with how fabric falls so gracefully away from his chest, from his arms. How his cock bobs freely. He resumes his position. </p><p>“Face me.” </p><p>You crawl into his lap, his lips colliding with yours as you settle, hovering just above his dribbling member. Your forehead settles against his as you lower yourself, down, down, down until he’s stretching you open, until he’s groaning obscenely. His hands grasp at your hips, his fingers digging deep into your skin. He guides your movements, up, then down - slowly, at first. Because he wants to <em> see </em> . He moves to rest his chin against your shoulder, his stare fastened on the reflection of your joined forms. He drags a palm across your back, his nails scratch your skin and the sting elicits a strangled whimper from your throat. He bucks his hips faster, then, pulling you down onto his cock roughly, <em> deeply</em>. He needs to learn, he knows, to control himself, to pace himself. But there’s time for that, he thinks. Now, he simply wants to watch how he takes you, how he makes you every bit <em> his</em>, as he is yours. You tangle a hand in his hair, pulling gently at the root, and he snarls, snapping into you hard. His attention never wavers from you, though. From your mirror image. You, as always, are the cynosure of his soul, of his very being. Each action, each order a deliberate one, with you his sole intent.</p><p>He’s <em> breathless</em>. The way his shaft pierces you, the way you take him, the way you <em> bounce </em> for him. Your back arches in his hands, and the way you moan, the way you tremble in his grasp, the sight of his cock coated in your slick - it undoes him far faster than he’d intended. He shudders, groaning low and deep as his orgasm soars, hips stuttering as he rocks his cum as far inside as he can possibly push it. He watches in awe as his release begins to drool from your cunt, and all he wants is to keep you like this, stuffed full of him, attached to him, for as long as he can. </p><p>But life has its ways of forcing Kylo Ren to part with what few luxuries he has. </p><p>He senses them before he hears them. Senses the sudden surge of violent rage, the volatile churn of desired retribution. Kylo quickly brings you to your feet, scrambling in the dark for your nightdress. </p><p>“Ky-”</p><p>He pulls the silk fabric over your head without a word, quickly stepping into his trousers as you worry the straps. </p><p>“What’s happening?” </p><p>“They’re coming,” he grunts. He pulls his robes around his chest mere seconds before the door thrashes open. Kylo pulls you swiftly behind him, retreating with you until your back hits the cool wall. </p><p>“Take her to the holding cell,” Trudgen barks, and The Knights descend, colliding with Kylo as he barrels against them. </p><p>“Supreme Leader Snoke has returned ahead of schedule,” Trudgen exclaims, loud enough to be heard above the brawl before him. “And he’d like a word.” </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="www.kkysolo.tumblr.com">tumblr</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Chapter Twenty-Eight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>Heed the following warnings</b>: there is graphic descriptions of gore in this chapter, as well as violence towards RC.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s likely something to be said for the experience of being dragged violently down a hall by two large Knights, with Kylo Ren’s cum dripping down your thighs. You’re not sure what, exactly. But something, <em> surely</em>. </p><p>The relentless blaze of the fluorescent lights assaults your retina’s, the vice-grip on your biceps causing your arms to fall numb, cutting the circulation off. Trudgen and Vicrul grasp a limb each, and your feet don’t touch the ground with how they’re hauling you along. You tilt your head slightly, observing the set of Trudgens jaw, the stubble that litters his neck. His eyes remain shrouded by the shadow of his hood. You’re so distracted by the pathetic task of searching for humanity in eyes you cannot see, that you fail to notice a figure standing at the end of the hallway. Swathed in ruby red robes, sickly slender and tall. </p><p>“I have some questions for you, sweetheart,” Snoke drawls, watching as the Knights brush past him, shoving you to your knees in a cold, concrete cell. Snoke follows, and Vicrul moves to stand outside the door, Trudgen guarding from the inside. <em> Silly</em>, you think. Snoke is twice your size, and despite his feeble state, you’d still be hard pushed to subdue him. </p><p>You scoot backward toward the wall, and you note that, somehow, the cells are afforded a single electric bulb. You wonder if it’s a choice to keep your quarters candlelit. </p><p>Snoke crouches to your height, smirking sickly as he watches the fear, the panic begin to show on your features. </p><p>“Did you know Cardo was my son?” </p><p>Dread seeps through every inch of you, a lump forming in your throat, thick and heavy. You shake your head, an honest answer, and perhaps the only one you’re willing to give. </p><p>“He was. And I’d like to know what happened to him.” </p><p>“I don’t know,” you mutter. “I wasn’t there.” </p><p>“I’ve told you before not to play clueless with me, girl,” Snoke hisses, leaning closer. “What <em> happened</em>?” </p><p>“And I told <em> you </em> that I don’t <em> know</em>.” </p><p>Snoke grunts, lurching forward and grabbing a fistful of your hair, pulling your face only centimeters from his. </p><p>“Sour child,” he spits as he speaks, and you wince as droplets of saliva land in your eye. “It seems that <em> both </em> of you have some important lessons to learn.” </p><p>He slaps you, clean and sharp across your face, and you cry out from the shock. You think, in vain, that he’s finished, that you’ll be afforded no more punishment. But Snoke does not relent. His fist collides with your jaw, your cheek, your ear. You lose the ability to hear for several moments, and you blink in panic as you kick your legs out from underneath you, desperate to escape, desperate for peace. A familiar, metallic taste blossoms on your tongue, crimson liquid beginning to trickle between your teeth. Snoke drops his grip on your hair, standing to his full height, his shadow killing what little light you can see. Tears spring from your eyes, dripping to the concrete you crawl upon, staining it with little dark circles. Snoke chuckles as he watches you, blood dribbling from your mouth and streaming down your chin. Your knees scrape along the rough ground as you try to keep yourself somewhat upright. Your attempts don’t go unnoticed by Snoke, who, bemused as ever, kicks you roughly in your stomach, again and again, until you fall to your side. You cough, the wind almost entirely knocked out of you. He offers one more sharp boot to your abdomen, smiling ghoulishly to himself as he watches you writhe. </p><p>He turns his attention to Trudgen, who stands motionless by the door. </p><p>“I trust you’ll see to it that she remains here until I think of an adequate punishment,” Snoke snaps, and Trudgen nods his head in accordance. </p><p>Neither of them look at you as you lift your head high enough to vomit, your stomach heaving and clenching as your insides throb. You gasp between retches, palms scratching against the floor as you drag yourself to a kneeling position. </p><p>“Of course, sir.” </p>
<hr/><p>Ushar pushes Kylo down by his shoulders. He falls to one knee, one forearm braced on his thigh, the other falling to his side. His fists clench, his entire body tensing as he begins to realise the dire nature of the situation he’s now faced with, with only himself to blame.</p><p>Kuruk and Ap’lek retreat to the sidelines without a word, Ushar moving to stand by the door. Kylo is acutely aware of where each of them stand, of how the weight of their stare burns the back of his neck. </p><p>Snoke sits on the throne, jaw clenched in anticipation. Brendol stands obediently by his side, Armitage next to him, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, hands clasped firmly behind his back.  </p><p>“You’d do well to tell me the truth, Ren,” Snoke’s tone is calm, disinterested, almost. But Kylo knows, and knows too well, how quickly that can change. </p><p>“I told you-”</p><p>“Let’s not pretend you’re a man of the people,” Snoke chuckles as he speaks, yellowed-fingernails tapping sharply against the armrest of his throne. <em> No</em>, Kylo thinks. <em> My throne</em>. “All these people, your <em> chumani, </em>and can you name a single one?” </p><p>He knows better than to answer. </p><p>“I appreciate this new vigour,” Snoke continues. “It’s exactly what I’d hoped for, if I’m being honest, when I brought her here. A considerable fuel for your connection to the dark-side,” he clicks his tongue, shaking his head in disappointment. “But perhaps it was too generous of me to expect you to control it,” he cocks a brow at Ren, eyeing him indignantly. “<em>You</em>. A callow, guileless boy.”  </p><p>Kylo’s eyes settle at Snoke’s feet, partially hidden by the hem of his long, crimson robes. He’d always silently pondered the colour.</p><p>“I won’t ask you again, Ren,” Snoke leans forward in his seat, his sharp features constricted in a menacing snarl. “What <em> happened </em> to my son?” </p><p>Kylo grits his teeth, raising his eyes to Snoke in a challenging glare. </p><p>“Do you want to know because you care, or because you weren’t in control?” </p><p>Snoke is silent for a beat, before breaking into a cackle. He leans back in his throne, and Kylo wishes he could peel back the thin layer of vile, ashen skin that stretches over his cheekbones. He thinks of it often, actually. Thinks of how he could rip it right off his face, thinks of how he could gauge and carve out his eyes, breaking them free of their socket, until he can see right into the old man’s decrepit skull. He fantasises, sometimes, about prying the debilitated muscle from his bones, until there’s nothing left but a rotting, brittle skeleton. He’d burn it, the flesh. Watch it melt and smolder, and he’d revel in the knowledge that the stench is that of the <em> end</em>. The end of <em> this</em>, the end of this repugnant sensation of being pulled apart, of this monotonous swing between falling at Snoke’s feet in devotion, and wanting to rip the man’s esophagus clean from his throat. </p><p>“<em>There </em> it is, there’s that <em> vitality </em> you once had,” Snoke grins. “You were a nightmarish child, do you remember that, Ren? Do you remember all your petulant tantrums?”</p><p>Kylo grinds his molars, his jaw shifting. </p><p>A peculiar question, he thinks. Because how could he forget? He’s been damned, cursed with those memories, of his sides aching and lead-weighted with bruises, of his trachea scratched and raw from screeching at the top of his lungs - until someone, <em> anyone</em>, heard him. He’s plagued with nightmares of those nights where he’d fall into uncomfortable slumber, wedged between his desk and the wall, of scrambling down an endless corridor, chasing a window just out of reach. </p><p>Kylo seals his lips firmly shut, his gaze flicking up to meet Armitage. The frail man is far paler than usual, his glassy eyes fastened firmly to his feet. Brendol stands stoically at his side, ever smug, ever arrogant. </p><p>“You were so full of anger, the perfect amount of rage for your intended purposes,” Snoke rolls his eyes, scoffing lightly. “Perhaps I overestimated you, Ren. Your power...Your <em> link </em> to the dark side is strong, yes. But your control is lacking. I should have expected as much, from a weak-willed, pitiful <em> boy</em>,” Snoke rises from his seat, then, stalking toward him, limping as he often does. Kylo hopes he collapses, hopes the cartilage in his joints rots to nothing. Snoke is closer, now, his skeletal form towering towering over that of his <em> Chosen Boy</em>. </p><p>Kylo knows what’s coming. He braces for it. </p><p>The echo of the <em> thwack </em> resounds throughout the room, and the impact sends his head to the right. He inhales sharply through his nose, swallowing harshly. He winces, squeezing his eyes shut as the second smack comes, then a third, then a fourth, until the skin of his cheek is raw and red. Kylo exhales a shuddering breath, steadying himself as Snoke retreats. </p><p>“A disappointment. A <em> child</em>, that’s all you are,” he hisses, reaching into his robes. <em> No</em>, Kylo thinks. <em> He wouldn’t. Would he? </em> Snoke withdraws his sword, its long, perfected blade glistens under the candlelight. “A child who needs to be taught a lesson in <em> compliance</em>.” </p><p>Snoke swings the blade, and Kylo has only a millisecond to react, to turn his face - but it’s too little too late. The <em> sting, </em>the sharp bite of the blade as it slices through the soft skin of his cheek, his neck, his chest - he almost chokes from the shock of it, his hand flying up instinctively to cradle his jaw. </p><p>“And rest assured, the same lesson has already been given to your <em> precious </em> wife.” </p><p>Time stands still. All Kylo can hear is the blood that rushes through his ears, all he can see is the blinding streaks of white that spear across his eyelids. Rage, tumultuous and violent, churns within his very core, and his face heats, every muscle in his body turning rigid with the <em>force</em> of it.</p><p>Brendol’s voice pulls him from his daze, his gruff panic breaking his focus. But Kylo doesn’t recede. And it’s only then, that he sees the subject of Brendol’s horror, the result of his own brutal furor. Snoke grapples with his neck, his sharp, jagged fingernails clawing and ripping at his own thinning skin and flesh in desperation as he gasps for air. He collapses to his knees, his sword long since abandoned on the cool floor. Brendol is pawing at Snoke with his fat, heavy hands, murmuring desperately under his breath; words that Kylo doesn’t care to understand. </p><p>“Stop!” Brendol cries out, his voice cracking. “How are you doing this?” </p><p>Kylo blinks. Hadn’t he known? Hadn’t he known, all this time, what child Snoke was raising? What power lay just beyond his grasp? </p><p>“I can do far more than <em> this</em>,” Kylo rasps as Snoke finally drops to the floor, his face colliding with the ground with a dull thud. He looks to Hux, and Armitage, still in his rightful place next to the throne, nods discreetly. They both watch in silence as Brendol drops, his knees crashing to the ground, his chest heaving as he splutters and chokes. It takes far less energy than Kylo had expected, and he thinks, then, of his stars. Of his window, of all the simple pleasantries that Brendol robbed him of. The ginger man’s eyes turn bloodshot, his face beet-red as Kylo increases the force of his invisible grip. Armitage watches impassively, his expression void of any emotion, as his father falls forward, limp and weighted. Kylo thinks of all those times, all those caustic instances where he felt <em>weak</em>. When he was told, time and time again, that he was nothing. Nothing but a boy, nothing but a failure, nothing but a foolish serf.</p><p>
  <em> And when my faults die, only I will prevail.  </em>
</p><p>Standing, Kylo quickly summons Snoke’s sword with the force, the hilt settling in his outstretched palm. The Knights are already behind him, encircling him. They were hesitant at first, this he knows. Shocked. Confused as to who to follow, what they should do. But regardless, he doesn’t have much time, really, to ponder on why, or to assess his options. So he acts, as he always does, on his instincts. </p><p>Kylo ducks suddenly, swinging the blade of Snoke’s sword smoothly and swiftly behind him, turning with it, until he faces the Knights that stand before him, their weapons readily drawn. </p><p>“Stand with me,” Kylo’s voice is deep, assured, smooth. “Or die.” </p>
<hr/><p>You’ve backed yourself into the far corner of the cell, wiping at your bloodied lips with the back of your hand. </p><p>“I thought you were different,” you murmur, pulling your knees into your chest. Trudgen doesn’t answer. </p><p>“You were kind to me.” </p><p>He shifts only slightly, fists clenching in and out of fists, but remains silent. You sigh, tipping your head back against the cold wall. The cell is freezing, and your delicate nightdress offers little warmth. </p><p>“The prophecy is bullshit, isn’t it?”</p><p>Trudgen finally turns to face you. </p><p>“How should I know?” His voice is gruff, thick. You don’t need to see his eyes to be able to discern the incredulous expression on his face. </p><p>You shrug. </p><p>“I think it is. I think Snoke’s been feeding Kylo all sorts of crap to keep him obedient.”</p><p>“How would you know if it’s true or not?”</p><p>“Have you seen what he can do?” You ask, a rogue tear trailing down your cheek. “Kylo, I mean.”</p><p>Trudgen scoffs. </p><p>“By accident. We weren’t supposed to see, it’s forbidden,” he sighs, then. “But he’d lose control as a kid.” </p><p>“Forbidden?”</p><p>Trudgen hums. </p><p>“The <em>chumani</em>, everyone, they all know he’s special, that he can do things that humans can’t. Snoke never told them what, though. Supposed to be some sort of revelation.” </p><p>You can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes you. </p><p>“I can never tell if Snoke really believes the crap he peddles or not.”</p><p>“And what makes you think you have a clue?” Trudgen, to your surprise, remains calm, and there’s no hint of defensiveness hidden between his words. </p><p>“Because I don’t feel different. I don’t feel like Kylo, I can’t do what he can. There’s nothing special about me. I’m just….I’m just <em> me</em>. And the only reason I’m here at all is because I was sticking my nose in Snoke’s business and he was afraid,” you sniffle, smearing blood against your nose as you wipe it with your palm. “And Kylo wants it to be true. He created this, whatever this is that we have, I think. I don’t even think he knew he was doing it, but he wanted it, and he wanted it so badly. To have a connection with someone. So he made it on his own, modeled it off Snoke’s dumb bullshit that he fed to him to keep him under his thumb.” </p><p>The Knight is quiet for a moment as he processes your words. </p><p>“Fate is fate,” he says finally. “Whatever way you want to look at it.” </p><p>A heavy silence falls between you, and you loll your head to the side as you think - of this, of him, of anything, to distract you from the pain that radiates from your jaw and stomach. You smile to yourself, your eyes fluttering shut.</p><p>“Strange how, no matter what happens to me here, I don’t want to leave,” you sigh, fresh tears threatening to spill past the confines of your eyelids. “I don’t ever want to leave him.” </p><p>And it’s like he hears you, when you think of him. Perhaps he does. The thud of his boots, the roll of his rage, you can sense it before you hear it. The door swings open, and he stands at the threshold, a fluorescent halo crests around his raven curls, blood dripping from his brow, his jaw, his neck. And you know, when you see him. You know what he’s done. </p><p><em> Emperor</em>. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I suppose we've reached a turning point? </p><p> </p><p><a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">this is my tumblr.</a> i'm on a break, but feel free to leave me a message or drop by, i'll get to you when i come back in a few days.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Chapter Twenty-Nine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Somehow this feels both plot heavy and filler-ish. But it’s the stepping stone between this point in the story, and the next shift. I had intended for there to be smut in this chapter, but all things considered, it didn’t feel right for RC immediately following the events. I’m sorry, but it will return in chapter thirty. Also, it is mentioned in the best way I could in the piece itself, but when reader is lifted in this piece, Kylo has the force on his side and weight is not an issue.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They say love is a dangerous thing. And, perhaps, it is. Or perhaps it’s the object of your love, of your darkest and deepest fascinations, that’s dangerous. Perhaps it’s him, the divine idol that wordlessly absorbs each and every drop of devotion your heart can offer him, that holds the threat.</p>
<p>Some say love is a fickle thing. Shifting, evolving over time, ever moving and unstable. A constant flux of erratic chemicals. Perhaps, they’re right. Perhaps this Holy Ground you both stand upon will split and fracture beneath your feet. Perhaps you’ll slip through the cracks, burning in the molten core that lies beneath.</p>
<p>And if you do, well. You do.</p>
<p>Your head rests against his shoulder as he carries you, weightless in his arms, power and force radiating through every pore, every gland on his fair skin. Blood drips from his cheek, trickling along his neck, disappearing behind the collar of his robes. His expression is stern, focused, his grip on your body remains tight as he pulls you taught to his chest. His jaw is set, and you can tell by the miniscule movements of the muscles there, that he’s grinding his molars. Long, steady strides carry you both forward, deeper into the maze of corridors that make up the compound. Past mold littered walls and make-shift doors. But your eyes never stray from <em>him</em>.</p>
<p>You could spend an eternity counting the freckles on his face, watching the unsettling, caustic light reflect against his raven waves. You never thought, really, that you’d feel like this. For anyone, much less the object of your job. But then again, maybe it was a prophecy in its own right, its own form of destiny. You’d been entranced, fixated on this case, on him, since the second you saw his casefile. You’d surpassed your own expectations, your own limitations, by being so bold, so brazen as to walk into a death trap, a cult, to find him. To stand beside him. To love him in ways you never knew possible, in ways you never thought you were capable of. To forgo every ounce of loyalty you had to anyone outside these walls, to leave all will for your future behind to remain tucked against his chest, to be kept firmly in his protective embrace. Something you’re sure your therapist would have plenty to say about, but little of the outside world matters, now. Nothing does, in fact. Nothing but <em>him</em>.</p>
<p>
  <em>Fate is fate, whatever way you want to look at it.</em>
</p>
<p>Your attention is only skewed when you come to a junction in the hallway, Kylo pausing in his path to allow several men to pass. You turn your head, your body tensing in Kylo’s arms at the sight before you.</p>
<p>Two Knights. A limp, lifeless body, wrapped haphazardly in black fabric, the face obscured. They hold a leg each, dragging the body along the uneven, grimey tiles. The body is bulky, and the men struggle somewhat to tug him along. Armitage appears behind them, hands firmly clasped behind his back, eyes trained on the figure at his feet. It’s not quite tall - or long, you suppose, given the position - enough to be Snoke. Hux is expressionless, completely stoic, save for a minor twitch of his fingers.</p>
<p>“I-Is that-?”</p>
<p>You’re not sure you want to know the answer, really, but you ask all the same.</p>
<p>“His idea,” Kylo says bluntly. “Brendol was no kinder to his son than he was to me.”</p>
<p>Kylo’s gaze is distant as he speaks, a tremor of fury rattles through your bond for only a second. Your eyes linger on his momentarily, before turning back to the hall. Two more Knights, this time, dragging what you can only imagine is Snoke. A thin, long form, which the Knights have little trouble pulling. You can’t see his face - and you’re glad for it. His sunken eyes, his veiny, pallid skin, his yellowed nails - they’re burned into your memory. You needn’t be reminded of the disgusting sight once more. Bile snakes a burning path up your throat, your heart hammering in your chest as it truly dawns on you.</p>
<p>
  <em>He’s gone.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It’s over.</em>
</p>
<p>But is it?</p>
<p>Your will to leave has dwindled. Your desire to stay, wrapped up in this falsified, delusional fragment of reality has only increased steadily. Nothing, it seems, can deter you from this feeling - this fear of returning to a life you once knew as yours. And it’s wrong, you know it is, and you try with all your grit to push against it. To break through this wall, this repetitive cycle of guilt and despondency. But it’s a fruitless effort. You wonder, you do, if this is how Kylo Ren feels. As though he’s tied to his throne, not by duty, but by terror, by a fear of what lays beyond the unknown.</p>
<p>“Hey,”</p>
<p>Your eyes flit to a short man - dark, short hair curling against his forehead. He smiles half-heartedly in Kylo’s direction.</p>
<p>Kylo is silent, only offering an imperceptible nod.</p>
<p>“He do that?” The man gestures to his own cheek with his index finger, and your eyes fall back to Kylo’s bloodied face. He nods once.</p>
<p>The man swallows, folding his arms and casting his stare in the direction of Snoke’s body, slowly disappearing into the darkness at the end of the right wing. He tuts, turning back and settling his gaze on you.</p>
<p>“I don’t think we’ve officially met,” he smiles. “I’m Poe. Poe Dameron.”</p>
<p>You jolt in Kylo’s grasp. It feels like time stills for what feels like <i>minutes</i>, as though your entire body is suspended in this moment. It would be cliche, almost, to say that your blood turns cold, but it does, somehow. A chill washes over your exposed skin, goosebumps quickly forming on your arms and neck. You think, for a second, that you might vomit again, but the feeling quickly passes. You manage a nod, introducing yourself by your real name. It dawned on you several days ago, that those who do know of you, know you by an alias you’d rather burn.</p>
<p>“Pleasure to meet you,” he smiles, though the pleasure is yours - the son of the woman whose life you’d spent months dissecting, desperately attempting to find her, to find her husband, to find any trace of their child. You’re ashamed for how little you’d thought of them since laying eyes on Kylo. You’re ashamed at how little you’ve thought of anything else but him.<br/>
Poe doesn’t comment, thankfully, on the state you must look. Of the dried blood that sticks to your chin. Another man sidles up to Dameron’s side, and he eyes Kylo cautiously.<br/>
“And this,” Poe wraps an arm around the man’s shoulders. “This is Finn.”</p>
<p>Finn nods silently in your direction, an empathetic sort of thing. His eyes, though tired, look kind, you think.</p>
<p>“If you’ll excuse us,” Kylo manages with that curt politeness that has been so forced upon him. Poe nods as Kylo moves past him.</p>
<p>“Ky,” Poe calls, and Kylo freezes at the term. You feel his chest rise with a sharp inhale. He turns his head to the side, awaiting Poe’s next words. “This is yours now, buddy” he says, waving an arm vaguely around the hallway. “Do good with it.”</p><hr/>
<p>
  <em>Good.</em>
</p>
<p>The word bounces around Kylo’s skull. Its definition, its value, its weight. It means little to him, really. <em>Good</em>. He has little to compare the word to - how little of it he has seen in his life. His pen, his desk, <em>they’re</em> good, he thinks. Memories of Poe’s laugh, of smiling - they’re good, too. But you. You are his frame of reference. You <em>are</em> his good. His purpose. And everything he does, every move, every step he makes, will now be for you.</p>
<p>“That was the friend you think about,” you murmur as Kylo sets you down on the bed. The sheets are fresh. You notice fresh candles have been lit. Something hangs on the knob of the closet door, though you’re unable to make out what it is in the dim light.<br/>
“Yes.”<br/>
“He seems nice.”</p>
<p>You watch as Kylo disappears into the bathroom, yearning for his presence even though he hasn’t fully left the room.</p>
<p>“He is,” he replies, reappearing, carrying a dampened towel. He kneels at your feet, dragging the warm cloth across your sore flesh, wiping away the blood, the tears, the sweat that has embedded itself into your skin.<br/>
“The other man, Finn, was he your friend too?”<br/>
Kylo shakes his head.<br/>
“He belongs to Poe.”<br/>
Your brow raises in question.<br/>
“<em>Belongs</em> to Poe?”</p>
<p>Kylo’s gaze meets yours for a moment, as he moves the cloth down your neck. A droplet of water escapes the wet fabric, trickling down your mostly exposed chest. His eyes follow the drop, watching as it disappears beneath the black satin of your nightdress.</p>
<p>“They are what we are,” he says, bringing his attention back to your throat.<br/>
“A couple, you mean?”<br/>
“If that’s what you call it.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t tell you of how he almost killed Finn, of how he was moments, seconds away from slicing his blade right through the young man’s neck. You don’t need to know of his moment of weakness, of this mercy he shouldn’t have granted.</p>
<p>Blood still drips from your lip, from where it’s split in the corner from the weight of Snoke’s fist. Kylo exhales shakily as he catches the drop with his thumb, a poor attempt in controlling his rage. What little effort he makes to do so, is only for your benefit. He feels the fear that still skirts along your bond, the anxiety that remains a hair away from dissolving into panic. You’re still trembling, still so sore to the touch. He’d revive him if he could, Kylo thinks. Just to kill him again. Just to claw open his ribcage, just to rip out his lungs.<br/>
No one, he vows to himself, will ever touch you again. Nor will they look at you, nor will they think of you. No one but <em>him</em>. As undeserving, as shameful as he is - he’s equally as selfish. And what you give him, he will take. Keep. Make his - over and over, to ensure that every atom, every fibre that constructs your being belongs to him. To solidify this unity, this feeling of <em>belonging</em>. To <em>something</em>. To <em>someone</em>. To <em>you</em>.</p>
<p>He moves, following the trails of blood that stream down your torso, slipping the cloth beneath the plunging neckline of your garment.</p>
<p>“You’re Empress, now,” he murmurs. “All of this is yours.”</p>
<p><em>Peculiar</em>, you think. The Emperor, kneeling at your feet, serving you, cleaning you.</p>
<p>“It’s <em>yours</em>, Kylo,” you reach out, resting your hand against his cheek. He pauses his movements, leaning into your touch. He still can’t fathom it - the way your fingers caress his skin, with no agenda, no harm, no hurt.<br/>
“Ours,” he says against your palm.<br/>
“That must hurt,” you bring your free hand to tip at his jaw on the left side of his face. The wound still oozes lazily, collecting around the dried blood that has settled along his jaw.<br/>
“It’s nothing,” he moves your hands, placing them back in your lap. You’re tired, he can feel it. Exhausted, <em>anxious</em>. He pulls you forward until you’re standing, and he rises to his full height. He’s decided that the cloth is doing little to wipe the remnants of Snoke’s attack from your skin.</p>
<p>He guides you toward the shower, fingers slipping beneath the straps of your dress. He watches it pool around your ankles, watches how you still shake in his hands. You pause on the threshold between the bathroom and the bedroom, a shimmer, a glint of <em>something</em> catches your eye.</p>
<p>“What are those?” Your words come out far quieter than you’d intended.<br/>
“Your new robes, <em>min turhaya</em>,” he gently nudges you forward when you shift to look. “You can try them on later. Not now.”</p>
<p>The water is warm, and your aching skin is glad for its embrace. The static noise of the water as it thrums against the tile lulls you into a false sense of safety, a quiet moment of almost-serenity. Or perhaps it’s merely disassociation, perhaps your mind is simply refusing to be present at all. You barely feel Kylo’s hands drag against your sides, your arms, as he washes the ordeal from your figure. The sight of your blood mixed with his as it circles pitifully around the drain is the last thing you see, before your mind flutters into a daydream of open fields and warm sun.</p><hr/>
<p>Kylo <em>loathes</em> his regal robes. The cowl is too heavy, and though the compound is cold - it’s far too many layers to be trapped beneath. He’s fussing with his tunic, adjusting the belt that sits around his waist, when you emerge from the bathroom.</p>
<p>And what a vision you are.</p>
<p>Black satin and lace adorns your appendages, the hem of them trails along the floor. You feel a strange sense of something. Something like ellevation, like power. Like you’d spat in the face of the man who’d dared lay a hand on you, and stole every last shred of his dignity for yourself. It doesn’t alleviate your shame, or your pain - but, as it turns out, your brief respite from reality has fuelled your spite.</p>
<p>“Beautiful,” Kylo murmurs, reaching out to run a finger along the lace that encases your arms. “You’re deserving of your throne.”</p>
<p>“Throne?” You blink. You’re not sure where you had expected to sit, exactly, but you hadn’t expected a <em>throne</em>. Kylo hums.<br/>
“There’s always been a second one,” he muses. “It’s kept in the basement. I’ve already had Hux bring it up.”<br/>
<em>A second one</em>. For whatever poor, unfortunate soul - that happened to be you - Snoke laid his sights on.<br/>
“Do you want to see it?”</p>
<p>You shouldn’t feel like this. This...giddiness, at the thought of sitting by his side. You shouldn’t want this. You should be grabbing his arm, you should be dragging him into the courtyard, past the gates, past the confines of his solitude. But you don’t.<br/>
And you do. You do want it. Despite your training, despite your judgement, despite every last shred of conscience that screams against it.</p>
<p>So, you follow him.</p>
<p>Back down the winding corridors, beneath the torrid, sour beams of electric light. He walks ahead, his height, his power emanating with every stride. Two Knights - neither of them Trudgen - pull open the throne room doors.</p>
<p>The twin thrones sit side by side - mahogany, tall and sturdy. The backs are cushioned by red velvet, held in place by brass studs. The armrests are wide, the varnish shining beneath the candlelight. You’re in awe as you circle them, dragging your fingers across the smooth, polished wood.</p>
<p>“Sit,” Kylo gestures to the throne on the right. “Let me see you where you belong.”</p>
<p>He watches intently as you seat yourself, tentatively resting your arms in your lap. He takes a moment to appraise you, dark eyes drinking you in, before he approaches you. Slowly - eyes never veering from yours. He runs a hand along your cheek, your neck, before taking his own seat at your side.</p>
<p>But it feels wrong.</p>
<p>Familiar, somehow.</p>
<p>As though you’ve lived this before.</p>
<p>Your fingertips drum against the armrest - anxious, unsettled, somewhat.</p>
<p>
  <i>“My love?”</i>
</p>
<p>You take a breath, allowing a sense of calmness to envelope you as Kylo entwines his fingers with yours. You turn to face him, and his head dips to meet your eyes, a curious smirk developing on his face as he, too, recognises this moment.</p>
<p>You’ve most definitely lived this before.</p>
<p>For a fraction of a moment, you’re back in your quarters again, a stomach-churning fear coursing through every cell, every atom that holds your now trembling form together. Your chest heaves with every breath, until you’re hurtled - thrown, almost - unexpectedly back into your throne.</p>
<p>Kylo catches your attention as he surveys your eyes - his stare running so deep, so thoroughly beyond the flutter of your lashes, the gleam of your irises.</p>
<p>
  <i>“Oh, it’s you.”<i></i></i>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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